Disclaimer: "More Clux For Your Bucks."
Parfait Boy is a creation made of equal doses of insanity and, of course, Parfait. He and his sidekick, Cheerleader Girl, make it their missions in life to pop up at random times for no apparent reason. Here's something wacky (Finally, I make good on my promise!) Enjoy!
Today's song is called 'Decomposing Composers' and is from Monty Python.
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(Kit is listening to classical music while reading Shakespeare. Nita is looking over his shoulder and reading with him. Parfait boy opens his door and sits on Kit's bed.)
NITA: Oh, isn't he cute?
KIT: (pulls earphones off) Oh no. . .not you again!
PB: (kicks Kit's leg hard) ICE CREAM!!
KIT: AGH! MY SPLEEN!
NITA: Kit? Your spleen is in your upper body.
KIT: Oh.
PB:
Beethoven's gone, but his music lives on
And Mozart don't go shoppin' no more
You'll never meet Liszt or Brahms again
And Elgar doesn't answer the door.
Schubert and Chopin used to chuckle and laugh
Whilst composing a long symphony
But one hundred and fifty years later
There's very little of them left to see
They're
decomposing composers
(Cheerleader
girl walks in)
CG:
There's nothing much anyone can do
You can still hear Beethoven
But Beethoven cannot hear you
Handel and Haydn and Rachmaninov
Enjoyed a nice drink with their meal
But nowadays no one will serve them
And
their gravy is left to congeal
KIT:
Oh no… please, no, make them stop!
PB:
Verdi and Wagner delighted the crowds
With their highly original sound
The pianos they played are still working
But they're both six feet undergound
CG:
They're decomposing composers
There's less of them every year
You can say what you like to Debussy
But there's not much of him left to hear.
PB:
Claude Achille Debussy died nineteen eighteen
Christophe Willebald Gluck died seventeen eighty seven
Carl Maria Von Webber not at all well eighteen twenty five, died eighteen twenty six
Giacomo Meyerbeer still alive eighteen sixty three, not still alive eighteen sixty four
Modeste Mussorgsky eighteen eighty, going to parties, no fun anymore eighteen eighty one
Johan Nepomuk Hummel, chatting away nineteen to the dozen with his mates down the pub every evening eighteen thirty six
Eighteen
thirty seven...nothing.
(Kit
screams in anguish as PF and CG exit)
Hehehehe. . .How's that?