The genre called Russian folklore © PETER ANDERSSON A MUSIC PARODY BASED ON: "THE WRECK OF THE EDMUND FITZGERALD" BY: GORDON LIGHTFOOT BONUS QUOTE: "Those who welcome death have only tried it from the ears up." WILSON MIZNER |
The genre might come - from Siberian moms And I hear it is called Russian folklore The thing is it's sad - and it always ends bad After hardships are death always called for Mostly set in the yore - where they lived on stomped floors As did Ivan the herald in this story This postal man knew - that his mail must come through Nonetheless if the weather was roaring His route was the pride - of Baikal's northern side It went back, forth and home every season He felt never wayworn - as he travelled forlorn Never once called in sick, that be treason He packed up his sack - and some dried beetroot snacks As he left for the route that he had planned And later that night - in the ol' pale moon light He could hear the first wolf in the woodlands The storm had him tired - but that was required And he thought there's no way he'd be failing So with his face blue - he did struggle on through With his plight to deliver the mailings Then snow came down hard - but as thoroughly scarred He stood up as the ice flakes came slashing When afternoon came - he was still up for game But his horse now required some lashing Their fate turned unfair - they encountered a bear Limping forward as it been surmounted With cold heart and skin - and the mare wearing thin They both fell as Ivan tried to mount her The horse it gave in - and became a has been Ivan's whole trip and life was in peril And later that week - so his legend bespeaks Came the end of old Ivan the herald As everyone know - the Siberian snow And its winds have caused mammoths to quit it He crawled all the way - and it's thought to this day With just fifteen less letters he'd made it With stamps higher prized - or some letters revised He might have made safe from the slaughter But all that remained - after wolfs made him game In a shoe was a note to his daughter The wolf pack it howled - and old Ivan was fouled Within view of his house in the morning Of Ivan it's said - he killed seven wolfs dead But most legends are known for adorning He fought tooth and nail - and he died for his mail Coming through as a postal defender And though postmen now plough - as the winter winds blow Still that man from Siberia's remembered In a forgotten grave - somewhere Ivan was laid It got stamped by his wife, now ethereal His death was ill-timed - she in week twenty-nine She starved dead without Ivan the herald This genre might come - from Siberian moms Now you know how it goes, Russian folklore It's always this sad - and it always ends bad And in tune even this song's now done for © Peter Andersson 2007 |
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