May W. S. Gilbert forgive me
I wrote a few lyrics for The Wolf Man; or, the Silver Bullet. These have been running through my head for weeks, in unfinished form, so I thought I'd better write them down. You know how I said that I measure all fandoms by how well I can filk them to G&S? Welcome to how it feels to be me.
SONG--Sir John Talbot.
When I had killed your mother dear,
I trudged through life from day to day
In dank depression, dark and drear--
I loved her, by the way.
Singh locked me in a dungeon cell
And tied me up with yards of rope,
And every month I went through hell,
A wretched lycanthrope.
Lawrence:
A lycanthrope...
Sir John:
A lycanthrope. A most despondent lycanthrope.
You get the inference, I hope--one must not cage a lycanthrope.
But when I ate your brother Ben,
I slew him like a stupid ox
And had a revelation then--
I can't stay under locks.
I have to prey on man and beast
As lycanthropes are glad to do;
I won't be lonely now, at least--
Me boy, I love you too.
Lawrence:
You lycanthrope.
Sir John:
A lycanthrope. A most pragmatic lycanthrope.
Your shoulder's better now, I hope--one can't keep down a lycanthrope.
RECIT.--Sir John.
Through some mysterious process, which I tried and failed to understand when I was younger,
Whenever Moon is full, I grow fur and become terribly buff, while rejoicing in... I mean, afflicted by... a cannibalistic hunger,
For the life of me I don't know how that works--of course there are shapeshifters in the legends of all nations,
But they don't explain us werewolves--perhaps we're accursed by God--perhaps I'm the Beast of Revelations;
Or perhaps it's just an illness, like the rabies or the clap, excuse my language, but no matter how it's reckoned,
I love every single moment--I'm the first werewolf in England, and, son, you'd better face it, you're the second;
This proves two things--one, you should make up your little puppy mind to be like me and have some fun with your condition;
Two, I may be getting old and putting on a bit of weight, but your old papa's still the king of exposition.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Lawrence:
Oh no.
I'm not.
But... that accounts for quite a lot...
I must have been a giant dope.
Of course you are a lycanthrope.
This clears the mysteries away
Which used to keep me up at night.
I'm not as crazy as they say...
Er...not as crazy as they say...
And oh my god I've got the blight.
Sir John:
Of course you do, you've got the blight.
A lycanthrope--
Lawrence:
A lycanthrope...
Sir John:
Such fun to be a lycanthrope!
You get the inference, I hope--it's grand to be a lycanthrope.
SONG--Sir John Talbot.
When I had killed your mother dear,
I trudged through life from day to day
In dank depression, dark and drear--
I loved her, by the way.
Singh locked me in a dungeon cell
And tied me up with yards of rope,
And every month I went through hell,
A wretched lycanthrope.
Lawrence:
A lycanthrope...
Sir John:
A lycanthrope. A most despondent lycanthrope.
You get the inference, I hope--one must not cage a lycanthrope.
But when I ate your brother Ben,
I slew him like a stupid ox
And had a revelation then--
I can't stay under locks.
I have to prey on man and beast
As lycanthropes are glad to do;
I won't be lonely now, at least--
Me boy, I love you too.
Lawrence:
You lycanthrope.
Sir John:
A lycanthrope. A most pragmatic lycanthrope.
Your shoulder's better now, I hope--one can't keep down a lycanthrope.
RECIT.--Sir John.
Through some mysterious process, which I tried and failed to understand when I was younger,
Whenever Moon is full, I grow fur and become terribly buff, while rejoicing in... I mean, afflicted by... a cannibalistic hunger,
For the life of me I don't know how that works--of course there are shapeshifters in the legends of all nations,
But they don't explain us werewolves--perhaps we're accursed by God--perhaps I'm the Beast of Revelations;
Or perhaps it's just an illness, like the rabies or the clap, excuse my language, but no matter how it's reckoned,
I love every single moment--I'm the first werewolf in England, and, son, you'd better face it, you're the second;
This proves two things--one, you should make up your little puppy mind to be like me and have some fun with your condition;
Two, I may be getting old and putting on a bit of weight, but your old papa's still the king of exposition.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Lawrence:
Oh no.
I'm not.
But... that accounts for quite a lot...
I must have been a giant dope.
Of course you are a lycanthrope.
This clears the mysteries away
Which used to keep me up at night.
I'm not as crazy as they say...
Er...not as crazy as they say...
And oh my god I've got the blight.
Sir John:
Of course you do, you've got the blight.
A lycanthrope--
Lawrence:
A lycanthrope...
Sir John:
Such fun to be a lycanthrope!
You get the inference, I hope--it's grand to be a lycanthrope.