Svante No. 13 song

WORST HUNGER PANGS

Put venison, smoked salmon on the table,

add caviar and lobster to the spoils!

When roast beef fat starts curling best it’s able,

Then all my mental juices seethe and boil.

My palate’s greed’s a stay-by

and my appetite’s uncouth

my fork’s a catapult with vibrant twangs

that fires off all the dainties

into my mouth

but nothing can allay my

                      worst hunger pangs.

We’re wallowing in wine and girls who’re frisky.

A tape recorder plays a cheerful tune.

We dance so close that pulse and mood get risky.

Our bodies squeeze so tight we almost swoon.

I’m partying and lay my

giddy head in some lap

while everyone around just shouts and bangs.

my soul can feel a twitching

my flesh too perhaps

but nothing can allay my

                      worst hunger pangs.

I drink and dance and whore just like a nutter.

Behaving like a rocket that has blown,

so from my pores great sparks begin to sputter

I’m exiled from my every shaking bone.

I had a short-lived heyday,

all my flesh has turned to flab,

so cups are always brimful in my hands.

Just she who isn’t present

or my death perhaps

just one might but allay my
                     worst hunger, my best hunger pangs

Svante No. 12 song

Svante’s happy day [HSSB 21]

See how the day’s begun!

Warm is the round red sun.

Nina is showering at ease.

I’m eating bread and cheese.

Life’s not the worst thing around so they say

and the coffee’s on its way.

Flowers start to flower once more.

Spiders run down the door.

Birds fly in flocks through the air

when there are birds to spare.

Joy’s not the worst thing around so they say

and the coffee’s on its way.

Green is the grass and wet.

None of the bees need fret.

Suck in the air till it’s spent.

Oh, get that bindweed scent!

Bliss’s not the worst thing around so they say

and the coffee’s on its way.

In wafts a shower-time song.

She’s really going strong.

Outside the sky is quite blue.

I can approve that too –

Joy’s not the worst thing around so they say

and the coffee’s on its way.

Now Nina comes right in,

naked, with moist warm skin,

kisses me fondly, still bare

goes off to do her hair.

Life’s not the worst thing around so they say

and the coffee’s on its way.

zkv2

zkv1

Svante No. 11 song

LETTER FROM YOU

I’ve an appetite that’s vanished

And all solid flesh has now sunk

I can’t even get plastered, get really drunk

till a letter comes from you.

To the spot I seem to be rooted

I just sit alone in a nook

I don’t even feel like opening a book

till a letter comes from you.

I shun all small conversation

reject each word that would console

I won’t even give my old mother a call

till a letter comes from you.

Vitamin C’s not on the agenda

I just lie here and pine away

I won’t even come to rue the day

till a letter comes from you.

I believe my days are all numbered

my pulse’ll soon give up the ghost

I don’t even dare to hope to host

a letter that comes from you.

So now you know what the end is

how much you must answer for

should you not, at once, just guarantee

that a letter comes to me.

Svante No. 10 song

SVANTE’S BLACK SONG

I’m so tired of myself and all my stoppings.

And my body causes me dismay.

What use is it my liver’s size keeps dropping

When my belly just balloons away.

I’m prone to self-hating

Need a touch of overrating.

I’m fed up with my name, my thoughts are fleeting.

And my prayers the Lord will all ignore.

What use to me’s a heart that goes on beating

When there’s no one it is beating for.

I’m prone to self-hating

Need a touch of overrating.

I regret all my past, my birth’s distasteful.

I should not have seen the light of day.

And Nature’s been a damned sight over-wasteful

when I wasn’t strained off straight away.

I hate my self-hating

Need a touch of overrating.

I’m so tired of my voice and my handwriting

and my brain is leaden, tired and worn.

It would be oh so nice and so inviting

to forget oneself and be reborn –

be freed from self-hating

with a touch of overrating.

Svante No. 9 song

A parody of the song in praise of the Danish tongue by Edvard Lembcke (1815-97)

To see this song, please go to here

Svante No. 8 song

SVANTE’S SPRING SONG

My hair’s falling out

my knee-cap’s all loose

my kidney stones rattle refrains.

My heart is askew

my gut’s in a noose

my leg has these strange shooting pains –

       for each step I take there’s this sting...

                        and yet it is spring.

My gait’s like a bear’s

my youth dead and gone

my mind set has turned black as tar.

My love has moved in

with him she’s keen on

I see her now most from afar –

       I also lost out on the swing...

                        and yet it is spring.

Our future will choke

in sulphur and smoke

we’ll leave what we took or we gave.

My shovel and spade

I’ll one day invoke

and hurry off down in my grave –

       this year could see my final fling...

                        and yet it is spring!