McCartney's Beardo

When I showed some of the ensuing lyrics to a friend, I had hopeful intentions of performing the song live for the cover band he plays in. With my notepad for reference, in a British warble, I recited a few lines of psychedelic nonsense meant to pay homage to classic rock icons from across the Atlantic. The bit about driving my lorry on the left side of the road induced a laugh, as I recall.

This glimmer of hope notwithstanding, my friend said he'd rather decline my request. He said something to the effect that playing even ONE novelty song can easily come at the expense of a group's integrity. Where credibility is concerned, four minutes of sonic gibberish compromises an awful lot, he felt. He added that even though he loved “Smells Like Nirvana” when he first heard it, Weird Al Yankovic has no place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and the same goes for “Lunch Lady Land” and Adam Sandler. To conclude, he speculated that the threshold for novelty in legitimate music was marked by The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper album.

We were high. But it was only weed.

Deflated but comprehending, I tucked my note-pad back into the pocket of my jacket. I cast a peevish glare at him.

“Just you wait until my blog hears about this,” I said...



McCartney's Beardo (“Creep” in italics)

When I turned sixty-four
When you were here before
And looked behind blue eyes
I couldn't look you in the eye
Saw Mop-tops entangled
You're just like an angel
And Marshmallow Pie
Your skin makes me cry
In pants made of leather
You float like a feather
Major Tom Sold the World
In a beautiful world
He flew in a vessel
I wish I was special
Rocket tin can vessel (WAH-THUNK, WAH-THUNK!)
You're so fucking special

Guitars that weep
But I'm a creep
McCartney's beardo
I'm a weirdo
Can you help me get to Kashmir?
What the hell am I doing here?
I'm British, not queer
I don't belong here

Wembley and Leeds concerts
I don't care if it hurts
It's only rock and roll
I want to have control
I'm gonna drive my lorry
I want a perfect body
On the left side of the road
I want a perfect soul
Ramble On to chorus
I want you to notice
See Me, Feel Me sounds
When I'm not around

Poor Tommy was special
You're so fucking special
Deaf, dumb, blind and special (WAH-THUNK, WAH-THUNK!)
I wish I was special

Guitars that weep
McCartney's beardo
Who dug the holes in Lancashire?
What the hell am I doing here?
It was Belvedere
I don't belong here

He's worse than Voldemort *
She's running out the door
Once I stuck with this line overnight, this notion of Mr. Belvedere (namesake of a cheesy sitcom from the '80s people scarcely remember) being more evil than Lord Voldemort (the wicked wizard from the Harry Potter series that has never piqued my interest) for digging the holes in Lancashire that John Lennon referenced in “A Day in the Life,” it dawned on me that I was in essence straining my brain to create rubbish—more so than usual. I have therefore put my aspirations as a novelty song-writer on indefinite hiatus, effective following the second appearance of “Mr. Belvedere” in the stanza below.

The worst part about this failure is that now it appears my friend was right.

He's...(I got nothing)
She's running out
He...(Still nothing)
She runs, runs, ruuuuuunnnnnnnssssss

Guitars that weep
McCartney's beardo
How can pudding come before meat?
Mr. Belvedere
Mr. Belvedere

Yikes. Never mind that business about an Indefinite Hiatus. Mr. Belvedere has much in common with my plans of ever posting a novelty lyrics ever again. They've both been cancelled.

* Or, as a weak afterthought:
He's On the Run some more
Run Like Hell, you lout
Run, Run, Ruuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnn...