Evening Wasted With Tom Lehrer

I should like to consider the folk song, and expand briefly on a theory i have held for some time, to the effect that the reason most folk songs are so atrocious is that they were written by the
Le. if professional songwriters had written them instead, things might have turned out considerably differently. for example, consider the old favorite, with which, i'm sure, you're all familiar
Ot;clementine", you know:

In a cavern, in a canyon,
Dadada dadadada...
A song with no recognizable merit whatsoever, and imagine what might have happened if, for example, cole porter had tried writing this song. the first verse might have come out like this:

In a cavern, in a canyon,
Excava-ha-ha-hating for a mine,
Far away from the boom-boom-boom of the city
She was so pretty, what a pity, clementine.

Oh clementine, can't you tell from the howls of me
This love of mine calls to you from the bowels of me.
Are you discerning the returning
Of this churning, burning, yearning for you-oo-oo... ah-ah...
Well, supposing at this point that mozart (or one of that crowd) had tried writing a verse, the next one might have come out as a baritone aria from an italian opera, somewhat along these lines:


Era legera e come un fairy
E suo shoes numero nine,
Herring bo-ho-ho-hoxes senza to-ho-ho-hopses,
Sandalae per clementina si, per clementina si,
Per clementina sandalae, per clementina sandalae, per clementine.
Clehementina, clehementina, clehe-he-mentina...

Herring boxes senza topses sandalae per clementina,
Herring boxes senza topses sandalae per clementina,
Che sciagura clementina, che sciagura clementina, cara clementina, cara
Clementina-na-na-na-na-na-na-na!
Supposing at this rather dramatic juncture in the narrative, one of our modern "cool school" of composers had tried writing a verse, the next one might have come out like this:

Drove those ducklings to the water
Yeah brach! doddley doo doo uh ah!
Ev'ry morning like 9am
Ooh pah! de do de do do do, biddley da!
Got hung up on a splinter, got a-hung up on a splinter
Cloo ge mop! huh huh!
Do de do de do do do
Fell into the foamy brine, dig that crazy clementine, man!
To end on a happy note, one can always count on gilbert and sullivan for a rousing finale, full of words and music and signifying nothing.

That i missed her depressed her young sister named esther,
This mister to pester she tried.
Now her pestering sister's a festering blister,
You're best to resist her, say i.

The mister resisted, the sister persisted,
I kissed her, all loyalty slipped.
When she said i could have her, her sister's cadaver
Must surely have turned in its crypt.
Yes, yes, yes, yes!

But i love she and she loves me.
Enraptured are the both of we.
Yes i love she and she loves i
And will through all eternity!

See what i mean?

Now, i'm sure you're all aware that this week is national gall-bladder week. so as sort of an educational feature at this point i thought i would acquaint you with some of the results of my rece
Searches into the career of the late doctor samuel gall, inventor of the gall-bladder. which certainly ranks as one of the more important technological advances since the invention of the joy-bu
And the dribble-glass. doctor gall's faith in his invention was so dramatically vindicated last year, as you no doubt recall, when, for the first time in history, in a nation-wide poll the gall-
Er was voted among the top ten organs. his educational career began interestingly enough in agricultural school, where he majored in animal husbandry, until they caught him at it one day.

Whereupon he switched to the field of medicine in which field he also won renown as the inventor of gargling. which prior to that time had been practiced only furtively by a remote tribe in the
Who passed the secret down from father to son as part of their oral tradition. he soon became a specialist, specializing in diseases of the rich. he was therefore able to retire at an early age
The land we all dream about, sunny mexico of course. the last part of which is completely irrelevant, as with the whole thing i guess, except, it's a rather sneaky way of getting into this next
Of popular song which is one of those things about that magic, and romantic land south of the border.

When it's fiesta time in guadalajara,
Then i long to be back once again
In old mexico.
Where we lived for today,
Never giving a thought to tomara.
To the strumming of guitars,
In a hundred grubby bars
I would whisper "te amo."

The mariachis would serenade,
And they would not shut up till they were paid.
We ate, we drank, and we were merry,
And we got typhoid and dysentery.

But best of all, we went to the plaza de toros.
Now whenever i start feeling morose,
I revive by recalling that scene.
And names like belmonte, dominguin, and manolete,
If i live to a hundred and eighty,
I shall never forget what they mean.

(for there is surely nothing more beautiful in this
World than the sight of a lone man facing singlehandedly
A half a ton of angry pot roast!)

Out came the matador,
Who must have been potted or
Slightly insane, but who looked rather bored.
Then the picadors of course,
Each one on his horse,
I shouted "ole!" ev'ry time one was gored.

I cheered at the bandilleros' display,
As they stuck the bull in their own clever way,
For i hadn't had so much fun since the day
My brother's dog rover
Got run over.

(rover was killed by a pontiac. and it was done with
Such grace and artistry that the witnesses awarded the
Driver both ears and the tail - but i digress.)

The moment had come,
I swallowed my gum,
We knew there'd be blood on the sand pretty soon.
The crowd held its breath,
Hoping that death
Would brighten an otherwise dull afternoon.

At last, the matador did what we wanted him to.
He raised his sword and his aim was true.
In that moment of truth i suddenly knew
That someone had stolen my wallet.

Now it's fiesta time in akron, ohio,
But it's back to old guadalajara i'm longing to go.
Far away from the strikes of the a.f. of l. and c.i.o.
How i wish i could get back
To the land of the wetback,
And forget the alamo,
In old mexico. ole!

<applause>
Thank you, for my first encore i'd like to turn to a type of song that people like myself find ourselves subjected to with increasing frequency as time goes on, and that is the college alma mate
U'll find yourself at a reunion of grads, and old undergrads, and eh... somebody will start proking out one of these things and everyone will gradually join in. each in his own key, of course. u
The place is just soggy with nostalgia. well, a typical such song might be called bright college days, and might go like this.

Bright college days, oh, carefree days that fly,
To thee we sing with our glasses raised on high.
Let's drink a toast as each of us recalls
Ivy-covered professors in ivy-covered halls.

Turn on the spigot,
Pour the beer and swig it,
And gaudeamus igit-ur.

Here's to parties we tossed,
To the games that we lost,
We shall claim that we won them some day.

To the girls young and sweet,
To the spacious back seat
Of our roommate's beat up chevrolet.

To the beer and benzedrine,
To the way that the dean
Tried so hard to be pals with us all.

To excuses we fibbed,
To the papers we cribbed
From the genius who lived down the hall.

To the tables down at morey's (wherever that may be)
Let us drink a toast to all we love the best.
We will sleep through all the lectures,
And cheat on the exams,
And we'll pass, and be forgotten with the rest.

Oh, soon we'll be out amid the cold world's strife.
Soon we'll be sliding down the razor blade of life.
<laughter>
Ready?
<laughter>

But as we go our sordid sep'rate ways,
We shall ne'er forget thee, thou golden college days.

Hearts full of youth,
Hearts full of truth,
Six parts gin to one part vermouth.

It seems that most of the songs that you hear these days on the radio played by the disc-jockeys, apart from rock-n-roll and other childrens' records, tend to be motion-picture title-songs. appa
Y producers feel that we will not attend their movies unless we have the titles well drilled into our heads in advance.

Of course, we don't go anyway, but at least this way they make back on the song some of what they've lost on the picture. with the rise of the motion-picture title-song, we've had such hits in t
St few years as the ten commandments mambo, brothers karamazov cha-cha, incredible shrinking man, i love you. i'm sure you're all familiar with these, but a few years ago a motion picture versio
Eared of sophocles' immortal tragedy oedipus rex. this picture played only in the so-called art theaters, and it was not a financial success. and i maintain that the reason it was not a financia
Cess...

<laughter>

(you're away ahead of me.) ...was, that it did not have a title tune, which the people could hum and which would make them actually eager to attend this particular play. so, i have attempted to
Y this and here then is the prospective title song from oedipus rex.

From the bible to the popular song,
There's one theme that we find right along.
Of all ideals they hail as good,
The most sublime is motherhood.

There was a man, oh, who it seems,
Once carried this ideal to extremes.
He loved his mother and she loved him,
And yet his story is rather grim.

There once lived a man named oedipus rex.
You may have heard about his odd complex.
His name appears in freud's index
'cause he loved his mother.

His rivals used to say quite a bit,
That as a monarch he was most unfit.
But still in all they had to admit
That he loved his mother.

Yes he loved his mother like no other.
His daughter was his sister and his son was his brother.
One thing on which you can depend is,
He sure knew who a boy's best friend is!

When he found what he had done,
He tore his eyes out one by one.
A tragic end to a loyal son
Who loved his mother.

So be sweet and kind to mother,
Now and then have a chat.
Buy her candy or some flowers or a brand new hat.
But maybe you had better let it go at that!

Or you may find yourself with a quite complex complex,
And you may end up like oedipus.
I'd rather marry a duck-billed platypus,
Than end up like old oedipus rex.
The out-patients are out in force tonight, i see.

Another familiar type of lovesong is the passionate or firy variety, usually in tango tempo, in which the singer exhorts his partner to haunt him and taunt him and, if at all possible, to consum
With a kiss of fire. this particular illustration of this genre is called the masochism tango.

I ache for the touch of your lips, dear,
But much more for the touch of your whips, dear.
You can raise welts
Like nobody else,
As we dance to the masochism tango.

Let our love be a flame, not an ember,
Say it's me that you want to dismember.
Blacken my eye,
Set fire to my tie,
As we dance to the masochism tango.

At your command
Before you here i stand,
My heart is in my hand. ecch!
It's here that i must be.
My heart entreats,
Just hear those savage beats,
And go put on your cleats
And come and trample me.
Your heart is hard as stone or mahogany,
That's why i'm in such exquisite agony.

My soul is on fire,
It's aflame with desire,
Which is why i perspire
When we tango.

You caught my nose
In your left castanet, love,
I can feel the pain yet, love,
Ev'ry time i hear drums.
And i envy the rose
That you held in your teeth, love,
With the thorns underneath, love,
Sticking into your gums.

Your eyes cast a spell that bewitches.
The last time i needed twenty stitches
To sew up the gash
That you made with your lash,
As we danced to the masochism tango.

Bash in my brain,
And make me scream with pain,
Then kick me once again,
And say we'll never part.
I know too well
I'm underneath your spell,
So, darling, if you smell
Something burning, it's my heart.
Excuse me!

Take your cigarette from its holder,
And burn your initials in my shoulder.
Fracture my spine,
And swear that you're mine,
As we dance to the masochism tango.

I have only comparatively recently emerged from the united states army so that i am now of course in the radio-active reserve and, the usual jokes about the army aside, one of the many fine thin
E has to admit is the way that the army has carried the american democratic ideal to its logical conclusion in the sense that not only do they prohibit discrimination on the grounds of race, cre
Nd color, but also on the grounds of ability. be that as it may some of you may recall the publicity a few years ago about the army's search for an official army song to be the counterpart of th
Y's anchors away and the airforce's up in the air junior birdman songs. i was in basic training at the time and i recall our platoon sergeant, who was an unfrocked marine.

Actually, the change of service had come as quite >a blow to him because it meant that he had to memorize a new serial number which took up most of his time. at any rate i recall this sergean
Nforming me and my "room-mates" of this rather deplorable fact the army didn't have any official, excuse me, didn't have no official song and suggested that we work on this in our copi
Ree time. well, i submitted the following song which is called it makes a fellow proud to be a soldier which, i think, demonstrates the proper spirit you'll agree. however, the fact that it did
In the contest, i can ascribe only to blatant favoratism on the part of the judges.

The heart of every man in our platoon must swell with pride,
For the nation's youth, the cream of which is marching at his side.
For the fascinating rules and regulations that we share,
And the quaint and curious costumes that we're called upon to wear.

Now al joined up to do his part defending you and me.
He wants to fight and bleed and kill and die for liberty.
With the hell of war he's come to grips,
Policing up the filter tips,
It makes a fella proud to be a soldier!

When pete was only in the seventh grade, he stabbed a cop.
He's real r.a. material and he was glad to swap
His switchblade and his old zip gun
For a bayonet and a new m-1.
It makes a fella proud to be a soldier!

After johnny got through basic training, he
Was a soldier through and through when he was done.
It's effects were so well rooted,
That the next day he saluted
A good humor man, an usher, and a nun.

Now fred's an intellectual, brings a book to every meal.
He likes the deep philosophers, like norman vincent peale.
He thinks the army's just the thing,
Because he finds it broadening.
It makes a fella proud to be a soldier!

Now ed flunked out of second grade, and never finished school.
He doesn't know a shelter half from an entrenching tool.
But he's going to be a big success.
He heads his class at ocs.
It makes a fella proud to be a soldier!

Our old mess sergeant's taste buds had been shot off in the war.
But his savory collations add to our esprit de corps.
To think of all the marvelous ways
They're using plastics nowadays.
It makes a fella proud to be a soldier!

Our lieutenant is the up-and-coming type.
Played with soldiers as a boy you just can bet.
It is written in the stars
He will get his captain's bars,
But he hasn't got enough box tops yet.

Our captain has a handicap to cope with, sad to tell.
He's from georgia, and he doesn't speak the language very well.
He used to be, so rumor has, the dean of men at alcatraz.
It makes a fella proud to be,
When as a kid i vowed to be,
One ought to be allowed to be
A soldier. (at ease!)