I'll have to master the technology of transcribing tape to CD to mp3, first. However, I have my CD demo on my pc and I suppose I should find a website to host that, for anyone who might like to hear it.
Zebedee and Zachary were drinking Cabo Wabo
on the pier just where the seawall starts to split.
The bottlelight was catching dreamy gleams of shiny dayglo
when Zebedee nudged Zak, "See, this is it!
Just catch this streaky accident of rainbows in a glass:
I hold this greeny bottle to the sun,
and voila! That's it! There's magic! Now, before it comes to pass,
a poet's job's to go and write that down."
"No, no", said Zak, his cheeks sucked in, his forehead rolled in furrows:
"No, poetry is never gold. It's grey,
As the deep encroaching seafoam beats a broken wall, so harrows
Time upon my flattened mind each day."
Zeb roared "You've mixed your metaphors, you self-important clown:
Please, either use a trope of 'sea', or 'soil',
But not the both at once. You see, the clearest verse is fun;
A word of toil will always read like toil."
Sun hid in cloud. Zak groaned aloud, "Oh deepest night of thunder!"
Sun showed again in yellow. Zeb whooped "Yay! Bro'!"
Zak:"Oh, but in that time of darkness, did you lose your wonder?"
Zeb: "Did I fuck! I had me Cabo Wabo!"
All about the pier resounds this argument of drinkers,
Questioning the crux of what is poesy.
All around the world we argue, with our thinkers' blinkers:
It's grey, or sunny Cabo Wabo cosy.
Fifteen years I've known you, near enough,
And in that time, you've written quite a bit,
Sending me odd drafts, however rough
and saying 'Please be honest, if they're shit'.
Somewhere, I've got, filed, your great big stack
of poems from when we were seventeen;
If you ever want to have them back -
you CAN'T! - okay, you can, if you're that keen.
And now you've got a novel coming out.
I have to say I'm proud of you, you know.
You've always been intent and so devout
to make it, writing always. Well, look now.
It's time to tell you straight, so, let me say
I really knew you'd make it good, one day.
Here's a brand new one, finished seconds before submission of this post.
Song For Aunt Teresa
I remember watching how the hens
would strut and jut their heads about your skirt.
You'd empty bowls of swill into the pens,
down on the pinkish snouts of pigs, moist dirt
and sweat from all day working on the land
caked on your brow. And I remember, too,
You turning over earth, with spade in hand,
digging spud-drills, each good furrow new.
Teresa, when I head down to your farm,
The farmhouse wallpaint peeling in the wind
That roars from Achill, I lean down my arm
upon the wall from which that scraggy, kind
mutt of yours, old Rex, would wait for cars
To bounce along the grassy boreen road,
Then pounce down, barking, tire-biting. Bars
of your pen gates have rusted brown; the broad
Old hayloft's roof shows skylight from where tiles
Have come down from last August's hurricane.
Over all this land, your years of miles
of work, the rush you'd conquered grows again.
But in my song, your memory will live
As long as readers see you work and thrive.
I wrote this in January but it needs to be sung in June. Please sing with me. It's called "Freshwater Blue Cascade."
Lover: don't you know
You're the green dell at the angels' playfield?
Freshwater blue cascade
brings the bliss you weave.
With your soft hairflow
Upon your breast, here at the black ford
noontide
Let your call be made.
Eclipse me beyond all loves.
Lover: don't you know
that you've me won?
You're the fire
of my reborn sun.
And darling, don't you know
You're the palace of my place of wonder?
You're the first and the last
who'll ever really hold this heart.
You kiss my furrowed brow
and brightly warm a soul
Too long in winter.
We'll kiss away the past: in your arms I'll build our start.
Darling: don't you know now, what you've done?
You're the fire of my reborn sun.
(Chorus)
Freshwater blue cascade
Freshwater blue cascade
Freshwater blue cascade
You're the dream gods weave
Julie, now I know
the wisdom Grainuaile has whispered to me.
Through her castle walls,
I've been hearing her sound your name.
And I've discovered how
I had to journey here for love to find me
Embrace me at my calls:
I'm home! I'm home! I'm home!
Maybe we were led to meet as one:
You are the fire of this reborn sun.
The blind corpuscles see, what's more they speak, dodgem-driving meridian lines and alleyways of feeling, joyriding the strictures of stiffness, loosening up the heart's around-body superhighway. Joy! Joy! Joy! Cuticles don't feel like dead cells, as pulsing fingers type fast on the keys to explain the process of here, the process of now. The process of HER!!! The being of Her. Her heart. Her eyes.
Hey, talking of firecrackers of the more substantial kind though, I just noticed seta's here! Good to see ya, man. Thought I'd tease ya and write a poem called "Beat Poetry Is Shit."
When I was fourteen years of age
I bought a pair of boots.
Brown suede, they were, or maybe beige.
Who cares. I bought a pair of boots,
and bought a roller neck. Pure black.
And bought some black jeans too.
I bought a nice new paperback,
"The Beats". And then I grew
My hair down to my chin. I went
about the town like this,
Writing monologues to vent
My woe in peoples' bliss.
But really, what I knew back then
But wouldn't quite admit
Was something I should state: Ahemnn...
Beat poetry is shit.
Kerouac knew this too. He said,
"That Beat crack's some old caper."
That's why he typed up "On The Road"
on rolls of toilet paper.
All dem feckers knew this too
And that's just why they rhymed
"Doobee doo bee doobee doo"
with
"angel hipstah dirtroad lemony tinted morning cricket motorcycle angst hardon bullet ashtray rivers of the holy Virgin sweating in sunsilk deathray icecream peninsula wavecrashes of cosmic Marlon Brando"
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
A: "Remember the day I showed you the farm?
You wore daisy chains that I made for your arm.
Remember the poems we wrote on the hill
With the sun on the banks, and the grass lying still?"
B: "I remember those nights on the balcony row,
Drunk on Gardiner Street, with the children in tow.
I remember the promises left to the wind,
Like your flowers that bloomed on the mountain behind."
I have grown tired of the ways of men
Who stand on mountaintops and bless the meek.
I have grown tired of the ways of men
Who claim to know the answers people seek.
I have grown weary of the ways of men
Who preach to congregations of the weak.
I have grown weary of the ways of men
Who speak for us before we get to speak.
I have grown happy in the ways of love
And loving laughter's unencumbered sound.
I have grown happy in the ways of love
Where no messiahs blight our private ground.
One woman's love is more than words from kings.
One woman's love is more than public things.
Zebedee heard Zacchary intoning in the bath,
"Aooooooo-aaa-aaargh, aoooooooo-aaa-aaaargh, Oh Guarder of The Path,
Whither goes thou, and must I guard The Path for now
To wisdom, by myself? Ohhhh Path of Desert Sand, I know
Each grain contains the misery of one unhappy God
and we must walk on glassy pain to know the Truth. I could
guard the path forever; that sad honour would be mine."
Zeb roared, "Get out that feckin' bath! It's nearly half-past nine!
Come on! Out the bath! I need to get to clean me teeth.
I'm going to a party and the theme is 'Coral Reef'.
There's lots of pretty wimmins there and plenty algave juice.
The tiles are cracked or dropping off from suffering your voice."
He banged upon the bathroom door and rattled at the handle.
"Come on, you poet's arse, you can blow that holy candle,
that you've put down on the toilet seat, out now. And pull that plug out!
And take those poet's pubes out of the bath, you holy braggart!"
All across the suburbs, poet-brothers rage like this:
One moaning with wet-wrinkled toes, the other seeking bliss
By readying his senses for a sensual excess.
The poetry's to see yourself within their witlessness.
All across the world, will poet-brothers argue thus;
For nothing more than doggerel, there has to be this fuss
to be the greater poet, though no audience is there
To praise them. Ah, this household scene. I think we'll leave it there.
It is an old conceit, but it is lost
on sermonising preachers of dark hearts;
the jester's heart is always broken most
deeply. In his subrole to the parts
of foolish king and cruel daughter; in
his night carousing and devising how
to mock Malvolio, he has seen within
the folly of ambition, playing now
The tragedy of comedy. And yet
another laughter rises from his deep
heart of revelation and regret
And balms the soul of poetry like sleep.
This is the freest pulse of worded joy:
The will to entertain an aching friend
with lines of light, to make a toy
of trouble and put restlessness at end.
You're up and fit for work at half past five
After the most refreshing sleep; you make
the finest tea of any man alive
and cook yourself a mighty feast, a rake
of sausages, the finest butcher's meat;
Then you get your flask prepared, and make
more tea from breaktime. Then you eat
your grub, and read the morning paper for a bit.
Then you stand and stretch, and get the green
bodywarmer on. By God, You're mighty fit
for nearly eighty, boy. I've never seen
a fella like you, never fazed one bit
By early starts and heavy grafting. Dad:
You're the greatest man we've ever had.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots You're up and fit for work at half past five
After the most refreshing sleep; you make
the finest tea of any man alive
and cook yourself a mighty feast, a rake
of sausages, the finest butcher's meat;
Then you get your flask prepared, and make
more tea from breaktime. Then you eat
your grub, and read the morning paper for a bit.
Then you stand and stretch, and get the green
bodywarmer on. By God, You're mighty fit
for nearly eighty, boy. I've never seen
a fella like you, never fazed one bit
By early starts and heavy grafting. Dad:
You're the greatest man we've ever had.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots My dead fathers will tighten their skulls at the jaws
and their hollows of eyes will blaze with the sight of won wars
and my dead mothers will rise from their graves at the sea
and pick up their scythes to stand in an army for me
and all our long centuries' curses that cannot rebound
Will stain the long grass once again on our old battleground.
You are so loved.
As raised voices of ancestral song
flow through my blood, my being
responds in harmonic unity
to the wonder of you.
You are loved by all
that they are
in timeless accordance.
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Friday. City dog track. Terraces
of concrete steps, down. Bookies in a row,
with placard names, like "Johnny Pegasus",
take big rolls of twenties, making show
of fat gold rings and bracelets, and cigars;
one shouts, "six to four". Some little bloke
with sideburns like Lambretta handlebars
is betting on a dog called "Wicked Joke."
Tannoy. Hare is running. Wire hum.
A rabbit toy. A whirr. Steel traps flip up.
Six hounds streak out. Sand flies. Fee fi, foe fum,
Dogs smell the bloodless prize. Some lanky pup
with forelegs billy-whizzing nears the lead,
Paws pushing forward, tongue stuck out on end,
in a coat of zebra stripes, his head
darting on and craning at the bend -
This is the fast approach of "Wicked Joke",
Ripping, speeding on! "Get on, my son!,
Get on, my Cocker!", croaks out Little Bloke,
sand in his throat, his left hand gripping on
his betting slip, and Wicked Joke breaks through
The sea of heads and paws and barks and roars
and yelps and leads in lengths and lengths and "OOOO!,
MY BEAUTY, YES!", he takes the line and soars
past the photo flash! Oh, see that hound,
He's won but he keeps going round and round!
Cap'ns Log. July the Tenth. Eighteen Ninety-Four.
The "Stoney Ed" has been nine months at sea.
We've noticed that our casks of IPA are gettin' sour,
an' all we have to drink is Ceylon tea.
The crew is getting thirsty. The crew is getting mad.
The crew is sayin' they won't do no work.
If we don't hit some land before next Tuesday, all that bad
Temperedness will drive 'em all beserk ...
___
Cap'ns Log. July the Twenty First. And not a sign
of land for miles. Just ocean, dark and deep.
Out 'ere the nightfall comes and cloaks us black, at half-past-nine.
The silence of the waters makes ye creep.
All you hear upon the deck is groanin' in the dark:
The crew is goin' crazy for some beer.
But then! Good Gracious God! You hear that gruntin', sqwawkin' bark??!!!!
That seabark in the water???? Drawing near??????
Good lord!!!! The Three-Head Sea Gorilla Pig of Skubidu
Is whippin' its scaled tail upon the prow!!!
Oh! Screams of men! Man overboard! Foam splashin' all the crew!!!!
Oh!!! Merciful Creator!!! Save us now...
Oh!!!! Thankee, Lord!!!! The Eight-Arse Sheep of Southeast Shaggadee
Descends with wings of golden shiny sheen:
The sheep bears down his fangs upon the monster of the sea:
and no more is the Sea Pig ever seen.
And suddenly a rain of beer comes pourin' through the night,
Five point two percent in eh bee vee,
An' each man grabs a bucket to catch all the beer in sight
And roars "Goddamn and blast all Ceylon Tea,
This is the stuff of men!" I retire to my cabin,
To my lady of the lovely lotus thong,
Whom I rescued from the palace of some grandson of Aladdin:
Ah, but would mean another song.
Comments
Thanks.
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
on the pier just where the seawall starts to split.
The bottlelight was catching dreamy gleams of shiny dayglo
when Zebedee nudged Zak, "See, this is it!
Just catch this streaky accident of rainbows in a glass:
I hold this greeny bottle to the sun,
and voila! That's it! There's magic! Now, before it comes to pass,
a poet's job's to go and write that down."
"No, no", said Zak, his cheeks sucked in, his forehead rolled in furrows:
"No, poetry is never gold. It's grey,
As the deep encroaching seafoam beats a broken wall, so harrows
Time upon my flattened mind each day."
Zeb roared "You've mixed your metaphors, you self-important clown:
Please, either use a trope of 'sea', or 'soil',
But not the both at once. You see, the clearest verse is fun;
A word of toil will always read like toil."
Sun hid in cloud. Zak groaned aloud, "Oh deepest night of thunder!"
Sun showed again in yellow. Zeb whooped "Yay! Bro'!"
Zak:"Oh, but in that time of darkness, did you lose your wonder?"
Zeb: "Did I fuck! I had me Cabo Wabo!"
All about the pier resounds this argument of drinkers,
Questioning the crux of what is poesy.
All around the world we argue, with our thinkers' blinkers:
It's grey, or sunny Cabo Wabo cosy.
And in that time, you've written quite a bit,
Sending me odd drafts, however rough
and saying 'Please be honest, if they're shit'.
Somewhere, I've got, filed, your great big stack
of poems from when we were seventeen;
If you ever want to have them back -
you CAN'T! - okay, you can, if you're that keen.
And now you've got a novel coming out.
I have to say I'm proud of you, you know.
You've always been intent and so devout
to make it, writing always. Well, look now.
It's time to tell you straight, so, let me say
I really knew you'd make it good, one day.
BUMP
Song For Aunt Teresa
I remember watching how the hens
would strut and jut their heads about your skirt.
You'd empty bowls of swill into the pens,
down on the pinkish snouts of pigs, moist dirt
and sweat from all day working on the land
caked on your brow. And I remember, too,
You turning over earth, with spade in hand,
digging spud-drills, each good furrow new.
Teresa, when I head down to your farm,
The farmhouse wallpaint peeling in the wind
That roars from Achill, I lean down my arm
upon the wall from which that scraggy, kind
mutt of yours, old Rex, would wait for cars
To bounce along the grassy boreen road,
Then pounce down, barking, tire-biting. Bars
of your pen gates have rusted brown; the broad
Old hayloft's roof shows skylight from where tiles
Have come down from last August's hurricane.
Over all this land, your years of miles
of work, the rush you'd conquered grows again.
But in my song, your memory will live
As long as readers see you work and thrive.
Ocean hush. Boot trudge. Black night.
A man of dead loves.
Lover: don't you know
You're the green dell at the angels' playfield?
Freshwater blue cascade
brings the bliss you weave.
With your soft hairflow
Upon your breast, here at the black ford
noontide
Let your call be made.
Eclipse me beyond all loves.
Lover: don't you know
that you've me won?
You're the fire
of my reborn sun.
And darling, don't you know
You're the palace of my place of wonder?
You're the first and the last
who'll ever really hold this heart.
You kiss my furrowed brow
and brightly warm a soul
Too long in winter.
We'll kiss away the past: in your arms I'll build our start.
Darling: don't you know now, what you've done?
You're the fire of my reborn sun.
(Chorus)
Freshwater blue cascade
Freshwater blue cascade
Freshwater blue cascade
You're the dream gods weave
Julie, now I know
the wisdom Grainuaile has whispered to me.
Through her castle walls,
I've been hearing her sound your name.
And I've discovered how
I had to journey here for love to find me
Embrace me at my calls:
I'm home! I'm home! I'm home!
Maybe we were led to meet as one:
You are the fire of this reborn sun.
sings
Peep low from tonight's black cloak.
Kitchen lights star out
Where in the blue day
Houses necklace Achill Head.
Midnight island life.
Here, on the mainland
All's black, bar willo the wisps
on the Fahy road.
Still, Joe Conway knows
where the roofless houses stand
Mindmapped, on black;
Where Corrigan lived,
and the Lenaghans, all ten,
and the McGuires.
And he sits up tonight,
Studying the midges that
Cover his window
in their thousands, and he
Laughs at their migrant light-lust,
Craving his lamp glow.
He bows. He won't, now,
Leave for England on that trail
For a new life's bright
start. Neither will he
Go, join the islanders where
There's light in darkness.
He dreams warm kitchens
He could look to as a child,
With their candle gleams
Shimmering across
The silence, seen from Drumslide
out to Dooreil. He dreams
awake, seeing no
light at all, no light at all.
He is not alone,
Though, he knows. He owns
a colony of winged beasts
And he commands the light.
When I was fourteen years of age
I bought a pair of boots.
Brown suede, they were, or maybe beige.
Who cares. I bought a pair of boots,
and bought a roller neck. Pure black.
And bought some black jeans too.
I bought a nice new paperback,
"The Beats". And then I grew
My hair down to my chin. I went
about the town like this,
Writing monologues to vent
My woe in peoples' bliss.
But really, what I knew back then
But wouldn't quite admit
Was something I should state: Ahemnn...
Beat poetry is shit.
Kerouac knew this too. He said,
"That Beat crack's some old caper."
That's why he typed up "On The Road"
on rolls of toilet paper.
All dem feckers knew this too
And that's just why they rhymed
"Doobee doo bee doobee doo"
with
"angel hipstah dirtroad lemony tinted morning cricket motorcycle angst hardon bullet ashtray rivers of the holy Virgin sweating in sunsilk deathray icecream peninsula wavecrashes of cosmic Marlon Brando"
jk
Just 'avin' a larf wid ya.
A lamb's placenta,
A drape on grey bogland stone
Flaps, empty, in rain.
You wore daisy chains that I made for your arm.
Remember the poems we wrote on the hill
With the sun on the banks, and the grass lying still?"
B: "I remember those nights on the balcony row,
Drunk on Gardiner Street, with the children in tow.
I remember the promises left to the wind,
Like your flowers that bloomed on the mountain behind."
Who stand on mountaintops and bless the meek.
I have grown tired of the ways of men
Who claim to know the answers people seek.
I have grown weary of the ways of men
Who preach to congregations of the weak.
I have grown weary of the ways of men
Who speak for us before we get to speak.
I have grown happy in the ways of love
And loving laughter's unencumbered sound.
I have grown happy in the ways of love
Where no messiahs blight our private ground.
One woman's love is more than words from kings.
One woman's love is more than public things.
"Aooooooo-aaa-aaargh, aoooooooo-aaa-aaaargh, Oh Guarder of The Path,
Whither goes thou, and must I guard The Path for now
To wisdom, by myself? Ohhhh Path of Desert Sand, I know
Each grain contains the misery of one unhappy God
and we must walk on glassy pain to know the Truth. I could
guard the path forever; that sad honour would be mine."
Zeb roared, "Get out that feckin' bath! It's nearly half-past nine!
Come on! Out the bath! I need to get to clean me teeth.
I'm going to a party and the theme is 'Coral Reef'.
There's lots of pretty wimmins there and plenty algave juice.
The tiles are cracked or dropping off from suffering your voice."
He banged upon the bathroom door and rattled at the handle.
"Come on, you poet's arse, you can blow that holy candle,
that you've put down on the toilet seat, out now. And pull that plug out!
And take those poet's pubes out of the bath, you holy braggart!"
All across the suburbs, poet-brothers rage like this:
One moaning with wet-wrinkled toes, the other seeking bliss
By readying his senses for a sensual excess.
The poetry's to see yourself within their witlessness.
All across the world, will poet-brothers argue thus;
For nothing more than doggerel, there has to be this fuss
to be the greater poet, though no audience is there
To praise them. Ah, this household scene. I think we'll leave it there.
on sermonising preachers of dark hearts;
the jester's heart is always broken most
deeply. In his subrole to the parts
of foolish king and cruel daughter; in
his night carousing and devising how
to mock Malvolio, he has seen within
the folly of ambition, playing now
The tragedy of comedy. And yet
another laughter rises from his deep
heart of revelation and regret
And balms the soul of poetry like sleep.
This is the freest pulse of worded joy:
The will to entertain an aching friend
with lines of light, to make a toy
of trouble and put restlessness at end.
After the most refreshing sleep; you make
the finest tea of any man alive
and cook yourself a mighty feast, a rake
of sausages, the finest butcher's meat;
Then you get your flask prepared, and make
more tea from breaktime. Then you eat
your grub, and read the morning paper for a bit.
Then you stand and stretch, and get the green
bodywarmer on. By God, You're mighty fit
for nearly eighty, boy. I've never seen
a fella like you, never fazed one bit
By early starts and heavy grafting. Dad:
You're the greatest man we've ever had.
I was just about to say the same thing!
pst... Father's day is tomorrow
lovely sentiment
As raised voices of ancestral song
flow through my blood, my being
responds in harmonic unity
to the wonder of you.
You are loved by all
that they are
in timeless accordance.
of concrete steps, down. Bookies in a row,
with placard names, like "Johnny Pegasus",
take big rolls of twenties, making show
of fat gold rings and bracelets, and cigars;
one shouts, "six to four". Some little bloke
with sideburns like Lambretta handlebars
is betting on a dog called "Wicked Joke."
Tannoy. Hare is running. Wire hum.
A rabbit toy. A whirr. Steel traps flip up.
Six hounds streak out. Sand flies. Fee fi, foe fum,
Dogs smell the bloodless prize. Some lanky pup
with forelegs billy-whizzing nears the lead,
Paws pushing forward, tongue stuck out on end,
in a coat of zebra stripes, his head
darting on and craning at the bend -
This is the fast approach of "Wicked Joke",
Ripping, speeding on! "Get on, my son!,
Get on, my Cocker!", croaks out Little Bloke,
sand in his throat, his left hand gripping on
his betting slip, and Wicked Joke breaks through
The sea of heads and paws and barks and roars
and yelps and leads in lengths and lengths and "OOOO!,
MY BEAUTY, YES!", he takes the line and soars
past the photo flash! Oh, see that hound,
He's won but he keeps going round and round!
The "Stoney Ed" has been nine months at sea.
We've noticed that our casks of IPA are gettin' sour,
an' all we have to drink is Ceylon tea.
The crew is getting thirsty. The crew is getting mad.
The crew is sayin' they won't do no work.
If we don't hit some land before next Tuesday, all that bad
Temperedness will drive 'em all beserk ...
___
Cap'ns Log. July the Twenty First. And not a sign
of land for miles. Just ocean, dark and deep.
Out 'ere the nightfall comes and cloaks us black, at half-past-nine.
The silence of the waters makes ye creep.
All you hear upon the deck is groanin' in the dark:
The crew is goin' crazy for some beer.
But then! Good Gracious God! You hear that gruntin', sqwawkin' bark??!!!!
That seabark in the water???? Drawing near??????
Good lord!!!! The Three-Head Sea Gorilla Pig of Skubidu
Is whippin' its scaled tail upon the prow!!!
Oh! Screams of men! Man overboard! Foam splashin' all the crew!!!!
Oh!!! Merciful Creator!!! Save us now...
Oh!!!! Thankee, Lord!!!! The Eight-Arse Sheep of Southeast Shaggadee
Descends with wings of golden shiny sheen:
The sheep bears down his fangs upon the monster of the sea:
and no more is the Sea Pig ever seen.
And suddenly a rain of beer comes pourin' through the night,
Five point two percent in eh bee vee,
An' each man grabs a bucket to catch all the beer in sight
And roars "Goddamn and blast all Ceylon Tea,
This is the stuff of men!" I retire to my cabin,
To my lady of the lovely lotus thong,
Whom I rescued from the palace of some grandson of Aladdin:
Ah, but would mean another song.