[realmof_themuse] 29.C - Lyrics: "I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am"
2009.29.C - Lyric Prompt - Herman's Hermits - "I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am!"
London, 1965
Having been a man of great curiosity for all of his life, Henry had often found himself intrigued by the way his Immortal constitution seemed to be selective with how rapidly it healed and repaired injuries. Over the years, he had been shot and cut and otherwise suffered a number of such hurts, all of which were undone with great speed. More subtle harms, such as the effects of alcohol or other substances took longer. Immortals could get quite drunk and quite impaired by drugs with almost the same effectiveness as anyone.
It was in such a state that Henry was enjoying yet another party. England of the 1960's was considered by much of the young, artistic world as the center of "cool". New thoughts in film, art, theatre and especially music seemed to all begin in London and then radiate outward. As such, Henry Tudor discovered it was also the home of the most enjoyable parties of the day.
As was common, he was sitting cross-legged on a low, plush cushion, with dozens of similarly inebriated people all joining him on the floor. There were women in short dresses and tall boots, men in Nehru jackets and the wall reverberated with recorded sitar music. Colored lights swirled and changed around them all.
Henry was listening to the man sitting opposite him, the one wearing sunglasses, even in the dim lighting. "No, no, no," the man insisted, "it's all well and good to have your Lennons and McCartneys writing brilliant music, but the teenagers in America just aren't up to it. They're still looking for simple, easy to hum songs."
"What, like those old music hall songs?" Henry asked, waving the metal tip of the hose he was holding, his gesture threatening to tip over the hookah to which it was attached. "Those ridiculous things Harry Champion used to sing?"
The other man sprang to his feet excitedly. "Yes!" he cried. "Harry Champion! What was his big song again?"
Henry's face fell. "I can't recall," he said quietly. "Something about Henry..."
"Yes!" the man shouted again. "Henry the Eighth! 'I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am'!"
"No!" Henry shouted back. "Anything but--"
But the man was already laughing and clapping with delight. "It'll be brilliant! The American kids will love it, and their parents will think we're teaching them history!" The man bent down and began shaking Henry's hand frantically. "Just you wait! They'll say Mickie Most is the smartest bloody producer in the whole bloody country! 'I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am' by Herman's Hermits!"
The man ran off, leaving Henry to sigh. It had been more than forty years since anyone had sung that damnable song, and now he was never going to escape it.
(459)
OOC Note: Yeah, this is a bit more like the modernking version of Henry, but I couldn't resist.
London, 1965
Having been a man of great curiosity for all of his life, Henry had often found himself intrigued by the way his Immortal constitution seemed to be selective with how rapidly it healed and repaired injuries. Over the years, he had been shot and cut and otherwise suffered a number of such hurts, all of which were undone with great speed. More subtle harms, such as the effects of alcohol or other substances took longer. Immortals could get quite drunk and quite impaired by drugs with almost the same effectiveness as anyone.
It was in such a state that Henry was enjoying yet another party. England of the 1960's was considered by much of the young, artistic world as the center of "cool". New thoughts in film, art, theatre and especially music seemed to all begin in London and then radiate outward. As such, Henry Tudor discovered it was also the home of the most enjoyable parties of the day.
As was common, he was sitting cross-legged on a low, plush cushion, with dozens of similarly inebriated people all joining him on the floor. There were women in short dresses and tall boots, men in Nehru jackets and the wall reverberated with recorded sitar music. Colored lights swirled and changed around them all.
Henry was listening to the man sitting opposite him, the one wearing sunglasses, even in the dim lighting. "No, no, no," the man insisted, "it's all well and good to have your Lennons and McCartneys writing brilliant music, but the teenagers in America just aren't up to it. They're still looking for simple, easy to hum songs."
"What, like those old music hall songs?" Henry asked, waving the metal tip of the hose he was holding, his gesture threatening to tip over the hookah to which it was attached. "Those ridiculous things Harry Champion used to sing?"
The other man sprang to his feet excitedly. "Yes!" he cried. "Harry Champion! What was his big song again?"
Henry's face fell. "I can't recall," he said quietly. "Something about Henry..."
"Yes!" the man shouted again. "Henry the Eighth! 'I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am'!"
"No!" Henry shouted back. "Anything but--"
But the man was already laughing and clapping with delight. "It'll be brilliant! The American kids will love it, and their parents will think we're teaching them history!" The man bent down and began shaking Henry's hand frantically. "Just you wait! They'll say Mickie Most is the smartest bloody producer in the whole bloody country! 'I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am' by Herman's Hermits!"
The man ran off, leaving Henry to sigh. It had been more than forty years since anyone had sung that damnable song, and now he was never going to escape it.
(459)
OOC Note: Yeah, this is a bit more like the modernking version of Henry, but I couldn't resist.