by Marc Gunn, July 19, 2008

I've been wanting to write another Firefly song for a long time. Today, I decided there was no stopping me, and it would be a drinking song. So I flipped on Jaynestown and watched it a couple times. As I stepped out the door to go grab a bite to eat, the lyrics flooded into me. So I came home and recorded the song.

(Won't you) Pour me a glass
Of Monahan's Mudders Milk
We'll wash the mud away.
If you poor me a glass
Of Monahan's Mudders Milk
We'll leave Higgins' damn Moon some day.

I was 12 years old
When my daddy brought me here
With two brothers who loved to laugh,
But 10-20 in this muddy hole
We lost the laughing muscle mold
And my brothers lost their lives to mudders gas.

My daddy raised one fist
To tell the boss he's pissed,
Another to the foreman on third shift,
But when he raised his shovel
To protest his low wage troubles
He was shot down and dumped in a muddy ditch.

Well mudden's all I know
Until I've 'nough to go
And take my own three boys far from here.
Maybe another place much worse
In this here cold Verse
Till then I drink my Monahan's for cheer.

Pour me, pour me, mudder, mudder, mudder me,
Mudder, mudder me my milk.
Poor me, mudder me, mudder, mudder marry me
Mudder marry me my milk.

by Diane Frost

In 2005, I received an email from a fan with lyrics parodying one of the songs performed by Brobdingnagian Bards called "The Lusty Young Smith". This one was a funny Star Wars parody called "The Lusty Young Sith". I loved the lyrics and saved them for that time in the future when I would sit down and record the parody... because that's what I do. It finally happened earlier this year when I started working on a new CD called What Color Is Your Dragon?. The album is now done. I'm happy to have this great filk included on the new CD.

A lusty young Sith by his ship stood a fighting,
His cowl thrown back and his saber aglow,
For to him a wholesome young Jedi came gliding
To struggle and fight and her skill for to show.

With a hum hum hum Hum hum hum
In and out In and out
Hum hum hum Hum hum hum
In and out In and out Ho!

"Your form," said the Sith, "well it is quite impressive."
The Jedi replied, "I've worked hard to be so."
Then they went back at it; the Sith was aggressive,
The Jedi returning each thrust blow for blow.

Her Master, she said, had grown tired and sour,
His strength in the Force faded out long ago.
The Sith retorted, "Well I'm quite thick with power,
"And I have much stamina, more than you know."

Red hot grew his saber through arduous labor;
The Jedi grew tired going at her foe.
It seemed at first Fate chose the Jedi to favor,
But soon she came gasping and thrashed to and fro.

Six times did his saber by vigorous thrusting
Thus force the young Jedi from high point to low,
But after a rest they fell back to it lusting,
And Sith each time thrusting recoiled more slow.

At last said the Jedi, in awe of his saber,
"What would I give could my Master do so!
"I ask you, young Sith, come spar here with me later,
"But do me one more round before you do go."

music by Redhill Rats, words by Peg Kerr

The Redhill Rats are a Celtic folk rock group of Helsinki, Finland. I loved their song "My Father Was a Werewolf". So when I found an author who wrote a Harry Potter filk of the song, I got excited and decided to record the filk. Download the song from my Marc Songs Podcast.

My father was a werewolf, a Marauder, one of four
Who joined the Order and who fought for Albus Dumbledore
My mother was an auror brave who sped upon her broom
and loved the man with the scarred up face whose boggart was the moon

Lord Voldemort rose again; I heard he caused some harm
with cruel men in the silver masks and the Dark Mark on their arms
Those Deatheaters had no fear, no shame and no remorse
There were burning houses left behind and a hundred broken doors

Come all ye wizards, hear the story of the ones that fell
Buy me Fire whiskey and a beer, and heed the tale I tell
If you have chocolate about you, repel those Dementors
and if this story spooks your wits, I'll tell you something more.

On a night-time visit he encountered some old friends
and told them he was leaving, that his marriage he must end
When Harry called him coward, the wolf rose in his eyes
But he left to go back home to her and to apologize

The Whomping Willow stands right there behind a wooded hill
And I cannot pass by there without thinking about him still
The Shrieking Shack stands in that field, its windows all a-gape,
Haunted by his memory and the ghost of Severus Snape

I believe he truly loved her, but both left me behind
and fell in battle fighting for the rest of wizardkind
My mother was an auror, my godfather’s the Chosen One,
But my father was a werewolf and I am a werewolf's son
Yes, my father was a werewolf, that makes me a werewolf's son.

by Marc Gunn, March 11, 2007

The idea for this song began three years ago at DragonCon. I went drinking with hobbits on Friday. By Sunday, I had no voice left (okay, it was actually the Con crude, but still...). Ever since then, I thought I should write a song about why you shouldn't go drinking with hobbits from Lord of the Rings. And maybe one day, I'll record a CD of hobbit drinking songs. It would be fun to do. From my CD What Color Is You Dragon?.

Don't go drinking with hobbits.
Sure you'll have a grand time all night long.
But if you're not used to drinking with hobbits,
You may not want to wake up at all.

They were thoughtful and kind when they invited me to drink,
A lone human among hobbitkind.
They bought me a half, then another and one more
And told stories of days long gone by.

The brew was strong. My glass never empty,
As if time stood still and bare.
But when I awoke the next morning
I felt like Old Smaug had been there.

You may wonder how it all happened.
Well, I'm still wondering what happened too.
I had tea, dinner, and supper.
Quite full, I thought I was through.

They insisted I come to the Flagon
And join in a toast to new friends.
But when I go there, I met more hobbit friends
And the toasts seemed never to end.

When the sun it rose the next morning,
And I lifted my head from the drool,
There were beer mugs spilled on the table
And hobbits lying next to their stools.

A young hobbit lass grinned cross the barroom
And nudged each of my new hobbit friends.
Then sometime after second breakfast
We all started drinking again.

I left Hobbiton a few days later.
My head was swollen and sore.
It felt like a dwarven anvil
After a terrible war.

I don't think I'll ever recover
From the food, the drink and the cheer.
Now I swear I'll never drink with hobbits again
At least, not till I see them next year.