Category: Writing (my writing)

There must have been something in the news about sex education to trigger this one. Probably the perennial debate about whether it should be a job for parents or teachers.

Nice idea but doesn’t really work as a lyric, in retrospect.

_ TEACH YOUR CHILDREN SEX _

(To the Tune of “Teach Your Children Well”)

VERSE 1 – PARENTS

You, who are under age, must have a stage,
Prone to suggestion;
And you, who are in your youth, are so uncouth,
That you ask questions.

CHORUS 1 – STILL THE PARENTS

Teach your children sex, make sure the text,
Is not offensive;
And teach, the birds and bees, the storks and trees,
To be defensive.
Why are our brats carping us, what’s the point of asking us,
“Mummy, what’s cunnilingus?” (parents look at each other, shrug, and concede.)
An Irish airline?.
(Bickering alternately. “Isn’t it?” “I don’t know. You tell them.” “Ask your father.” “Ask your mum.” “Ask one of your teachers.”)

VERSE 2 – CHILDREN {WITH PARENTS HARMONICALLY}

Adults, do not always know, what they should show,
{Don’t ask questions, no suggestions, don’t be rude dear, don’t be crude dear}
In pocket sex guides;
Like cults, in the back of cars, with a king size Mars,
{Generations, revelations, explanations, sexplanations,}
And packs of girl guides.

CHORUS 2 – THE CHILDREN CONCLUDE

Teach your parents sex, a bag and flex,
Is not suggested;
And tease them with your dream, Hagan Daz ice cream,
Can be digested;
Don’t you ask them what they know, they are as thick as Fabio,
And so they think fellatio’s an Eyetie model.
(Father in Fabio voice: “I believe that love between two people is fantastic, as long as you are between the right two people. I never got that joke neither and I’m really intelligent”).

Below is a video with Crosby Stills Nash and Young singing Teach Your Children Well and some scenes from a movie named Melody:

Clearly it was becoming a Sunday habit for me to write these lyrics for NewsRevue – all of the March 1994 ones were written on a Sunday – apart from one which I finished off on the Monday.

This one I didn’t finish off, nor, as a result, did I even catalogue it. I discover it now in the electronic folder with the others, looking sad and forgotten…

…which is exactly what it was.

_ COMEDY _

(To the Tune of "Tragedy")

VERSE 1

Here I lie in a lost and lonely Parliament,
Screw a spy and appeal up to the firmament;
Getting off with Bienvenida,
Army toff those boss men need her,
Holding them, moulding them, scolding them, balding men.

CHORUS 1

Comedy, when you need a fuck with a tart named Buck,
A travesty, kissing in the dark with your research clerk,
It’s tough out there, so men who are faithful are going nowhere.
You’re history, with a Kings Cross slag or a plastic bag;
It’s parody, when your MPs lie and you know well why,
It’s hard to say, why men who hold power behave in this way.

VERSE 2

Ev’ry day another top dog bites the dust,
Spokesmen say “a private tragedy”, you must…
Not believe this explanation,
They deceive, the entire nation;
Absurdity with birds you see ain’t tragedy or savagery.

CHORUS 2

Comedy, when the knickers drop pants are down and the

Here are the Bee Gees singing Tragedy with the lyrics on the screen:

Yes, I think I can see what I was trying to doi here. Neat idea, reads quite well, but was not destined for a long run in the show, if indeed it got a go at all.

_ SHOOTING FOUR MORTARS AT HEATHROW _

(To the Tune of "24 Hours From Tulsa")

(Irish accents are virtually compulsory for this song)

VERSE 1

Gerry Adams,
Called us to say that the IRA might not fight no more,
But in the voice of an actor,
He also said that we should get rid of our old mortars.
So we were only taking four mortars to Heathrow,
Only transporting our aged arms,
Our Micra looked odd en route,
With missiles aimed out the boot….

VERSE 2

Stuck in an M4 tailback,
When we all saw the Excelsior with a huge car park,
Right by a Heathrow runway,
We stopped the car and aimed our mortars to fire after dark;
Cos we were only, shooting four mortars at Heathrow,
Only 24 yards from a plane;
Some bastard sold us a pup,
The fire bombs failed to erupt,
But our car blew up.

(You could try an instrumental with a little Irish jig type dancing at this juncture, or you might decide to give that a miss)

VERSE 3

But still we’d left some mortars,
Home we returned but as our car burned we went home by tube;
Set off some more bombs remotely,
Somewhere obscure like Terminal Four when the Queen was due.
And we were only firing more mortars at Heathrow,
Only discharging all of our arms;
Our mortars were a damp squib,
Security was so glib,
Gave us the rib,
So we shall never never never go there again…..
……ho, ho, ho, maybe?

Below is a video of Gene Pitney singing 24 Hours From Tulsa:

Here is a link to the lyrics of 24 Hours From Tulsa.