When [G]I first [C]started [G]filking, I heard [C]rumors of a [G]song
[C]Just a little [G]bawdy, 47 verses [D7]long.
Though [G]filkers [C]all were [G]friendly and showed [C]hospitali[G]ty,
I [C]found too late they [G]weren’t geared for [D7]newbies such as [G]me.
And they [C]won’t play Argo, no not [G]one.
(No they) [C]Won’t play Argo even [G]though it might be [D7]fun.
I’ve been [G]sitting [C]at this [G]filksing for [C]‘bout three hours or [G]four,
But Argo don’t get [D7]played here any [G]more.
We sang about gifts simple and the ways of null-G sex.
We sang of drinking rivers and an Oedipal complex.
I tried to get someone to sing about that shore leave dance,
I got out of there in the nick of time and the remnants of my pants.
So I went up to a party and I got myself a brew.
I talked about the problem with a couple art show crew.
They laughed at me and walked away, muttering down the hall,
Now a cartoon ‘bout my plight is hanging on the wall.
So I went back down to the filk with a cup of something green,
They were singing ‘bout a robot that had suffered things obscene.
So I tried once more to bring up that old song to all those there,
They started throwing filk books at me and I heard them swear,
(No, we won’t…)