Archive for the ‘Filk Songs’ Category
One day in Quel’thelas
I met a comely lass
with eyes as green as Lordaeron’s canals!
Her glances and perfumes
attracted would-be grooms
but one by one she found them all banal.
She said, “one must be neat;
a girl is what she eats.”
She disdained all their victual offerings.
But she consented to dine,
with a shaman friend of mine,
when she heard his totem was a Mana Spring!
I’m an Elf Lover
(he’s an elf lover)
I fancy the long-eared
(he’s got us all quite worried)
I’m an Elf Lover
(he showers in mana potions)
I’m afraid I can’t be cured
(he grooms with sparkly lotions)
Once in Auberdine
(I was trying to go unseen)
when I stumbled on a pair of gorgeous scouts.
It was a perilous close shave,
but fortune my bacon saved–
for it happened that the two were making out!
(well done, ladies!)…
[and so on, and so on, and so on, and so on, until most of the participants are horizontal and incapable of carrying the tune any longer]
Shots of yours truly, on stage at the Spruce Winterspringsteen protest concert, in Freewind Post!
We were chiefs of the valley, out in Alterac
The dwarves come chargin’ up the hill, and we roared and sent them back.
Now there’s so much that grind and pick-up dungeons fade away
We got our own epic mounts to ride, and not so much time to play.
We stood side by side each one fightin’ for the other
We said until we unsubscribed we’d always be Horde brothers.
Pretty much every morning – or afternoon – I woke up in Freewind, there was a brass band playing behind my eyes and a game of orcish canasta winding down in my mouth. So I didn’t immediately associate all the ruckus I heard outside the tent with anything other than all the wine I’d drunk last night.
Turns out, though, that it was some kind of protest. Or, like a preliminary protest. A pretest.
Anyway, there was a milling crowd of slightly reedy, bookish types, some with kids on their shoulders and others with placards in hand, trying to get themselves organized for a march north across the Barrens towards a populated area and thus someone who might give a darn. Mingled among them were sturdier orcish types who I recognized as tradesorcs from the Pork Farmer’s Union in Orgrimmar, and at the head of the crowd was a guitar-wielding fellow in overalls.
“Who’s that?” I asked Manny Umpo, a troll drummer who was leaning against the tent post nearby and cleaning his teeth. While all this was going on, I realized my braids had collected an astonishing collection of cling-ons during the previous night’s festivities – bay leaves, clods of wax, bits of fruit, and – oh, ancestors, is this an eyeball? whose was it? euuugghhhh.
“’dat be Spruce,” said Manny. “He sum bigtime shouter from Durotar.”
“Ya, Spruce Winterspringsteen.”