The Quiet Moon Shines Bright Above

Nov 18 22:36 UTC 1993

[Copyright (c) 1993 by John H. Remmers]

        The quiet moon shines bright above,
        But not the moon that fosters love,
        Best go home and hide within,
        The moonface bears an evil grin.

        The churchyard 'neath the starry sky
        You'd better leave, on swift feet fly,
        For hear the shaking of the stones,
        The stirring of the grisly bones.

        Night enshrouds the quiet street,
        Then hear the shuffling of the feet,
        The clapping of the bony hands -
        The creatures of the underlands.

        Two by two, in grim parade,
        Loathesome shade by loathesome shade,
        Hear the stir of fetid robe
        Illumed by silent lunar globe.

        Their voices mutter, can you hear
        Of what they speak, and do you fear
        That in their noise you'll catch a clue
        That as they march, they speak of you?

response 2 of 14:

Nov 20 04:10 UTC 1993

That's possible I suppose, but I draw the line at affirmative action
for 'em.

response 4 of 14:

Nov 20 19:49 UTC 1993

I can see it now:  Entitlement programs for the flesh-challenged.

response 6 of 14:

Nov 21 23:21 UTC 1993

What John's verse reminded *me* of (I'm tempted to say "of course") is
Gilbert's "When the Night Wind Howls" (from G&S's _Ruddigore_).

response 8 of 14:

Nov 22 21:42 UTC 1993

Re #6, #7:  Any chance you have access to those lyrics and could enter
them here?  I'd be interested in seeing how similar they are to what
I wrote.  I've seen "Thriller" and on re-reading, #0 does have a sort
of Thriller-like feel to it (though I wasn't conscious of that at the
time I wrote it), but I'm not familiar with the Gilbert at all.

response 10 of 14:

Nov 23 01:15 UTC 1993

Here goes.  (The music is good too):

Sir Rod.: When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls,
             and the bat in the moonlight flies,
          And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds,
             sail over the midnight skies--
          When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail,
             and black dogs bay at the moon,
          Then is the spectres' holiday--
             then is the ghosts' high-noon!
Chorus:         Ha! ha!
                Then is the ghosts' high-noon!

          As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees,
             and the mists lie low on the fen,
          From grey tomb-stones are gathered the bones
             that once were women and men,
          And away they go, with a mop and a mow,
             to the revel that ends too soon,
          For cockcrow limits our holiday--
             the dead of the night's high-noon!
Chorus:         Ha! ha!
                The dead of the night's high-noon!

          And then each ghost with his ladye-toast
             to their churchyard beds takes flight,
          With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps,
             and a grisly grim "good-night";
          Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell
             rings forth its jolliest tune,
          And ushers in our next high holiday--
             the dead of the night's high-noon!
Chorus:         Ha! ha!
                The dead of the night's high-noon!

Hm.  I've had to cut all the lines in half (most of them were wrapping), and
the effect is somewhat different.  Though in fact the music divides them
in approximately the indicated manner.

This is shortly after the portraits of Robin's ancestors step out of their
picture frames, being revealed as ghosts in the process, to demand that he
commit his crime each day, & to put stipulations on what's an acceptable
crime.  Here's the immediately-preceding bit of (recitative) dialog:

Sir Rod.    Beware! beware! beware!
Rob.            Gaunt vision, who art thou
            That thus, with icy glare
                And stern relentless brow,
                Appearest, who knows how?

Sir Rod.    I am the spectre of the late
                Sir Roderic Murgatroyd,
            Who comes to warn thee that thy fate
                Thou canst not now avoid.

Rob.        Alas, poor ghost!
Sir Rod.                       The pity you
                Express for nothing goes:
            We spectres are a jollier crew
                Than you, perhaps, suppose!

response 12 of 14:

Nov 24 23:53 UTC 1993

V. Price's "rap" from Jackson's "Thriller"


Darkness falls across the land
The midnite hour is close at hand
Creatures crawl in search of blood
To terrorize y'awl's neighborhood
And whosever shall be found
Without the soul for getting down
Must stand and face the hounds of hell
And rot inside a corpse's shell
The fouldest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom
And though you fight to stay alive
Your body starts to shiver
For no mere mortal can resist
The evil of the thriller
(Into maniacal laugh, in deep echo)

Thriller - By Rod Temperton.  (c) 1982 Rodsongs (PRS), Administerd by
Almo Music Corp. (ASCAP) in the U.S. and Canada; In the remaining 
territories by Rondor Music (London) Ltd. (PRS).  All rights reserved.
Used without permission.

response 14 of 14:

Nov 7 14:12 UTC 1995

Hrrrr Scary man. Real scary.