10:53 a.m. 31 October 2001
I wrote a song last night. Yep. Thats's said witha bashful turning aside of the head to indicate that, really, it was nothing. Except that it wasn't. I'm not nearly skilled enough for writing a song to be nothing, really. It's for my Bleak House musical. Here are the words.
This is Harold Skimpole's song:
Is it really any wonder if I should slip and blunder
With matters financial, I have no art.
I don’t know fifteen pound seven from thirty-four eleven
I’m a child at these things, a child at heart!
My life I suppose, like a good suit of clothes
Fits me just right to a tee.
And if others think more of the wolf at the door
Why, they needn’t be bothered by me!
Though they work hard day and nightly
To cause wrinkles quite unsightly
They can smile on this child – oh yes, I’m he!
Why, if I meet a man in the street
And he’s good as to give me a nice piece of meat
I thank him very well, you know it’s true!
And then if he comes to knock at my door
And says he’s in want of the three pound and four
I’ll say, “my dear chap, then I’m sorry for you!”
For I meant the money dearly,
But I haven’t got it nearly.
I’m a child at these things, a child so new!
I paint, I dance, I sing, I laugh,I while the time away
The life I’ve got’s not bad by half, I make art of every day.
And if you choose to help me out, My dear friend Jarndyce here
Why, to you, I have no doubt I’ve got a purpose clear
For to ease my burdens on’rus
No doubt makes you feel quite gen’rous
You know I’m a child at these things, a perfect dear!
Yes, a child in these things, an infant mere!
I wrote a song last night. Yep. Thats's said witha bashful turning aside of the head to indicate that, really, it was nothing. Except that it wasn't. I'm not nearly skilled enough for writing a song to be nothing, really. It's for my Bleak House musical. Here are the words.
This is Harold Skimpole's song:
Is it really any wonder if I should slip and blunder
With matters financial, I have no art.
I don’t know fifteen pound seven from thirty-four eleven
I’m a child at these things, a child at heart!
My life I suppose, like a good suit of clothes
Fits me just right to a tee.
And if others think more of the wolf at the door
Why, they needn’t be bothered by me!
Though they work hard day and nightly
To cause wrinkles quite unsightly
They can smile on this child – oh yes, I’m he!
Why, if I meet a man in the street
And he’s good as to give me a nice piece of meat
I thank him very well, you know it’s true!
And then if he comes to knock at my door
And says he’s in want of the three pound and four
I’ll say, “my dear chap, then I’m sorry for you!”
For I meant the money dearly,
But I haven’t got it nearly.
I’m a child at these things, a child so new!
I paint, I dance, I sing, I laugh,I while the time away
The life I’ve got’s not bad by half, I make art of every day.
And if you choose to help me out, My dear friend Jarndyce here
Why, to you, I have no doubt I’ve got a purpose clear
For to ease my burdens on’rus
No doubt makes you feel quite gen’rous
You know I’m a child at these things, a perfect dear!
Yes, a child in these things, an infant mere!
Labels: being dumb, books, theatre, writing
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