I have been declared Emperor of the World. Let us not waste time explaining why or how; let’s all simply accept the fact that we are better off, as a result; hence, my next decree:
Emperor’s Decree No. Cmi7: It may seem a tad common for one of his dazzling grandeur, but the Emperor does enjoy a little stint on Facebook or Twitter from time to time. (This invariably leads to finger-blisters for the Imperial Scribe who keeps a list of dictated future decrees.) But, for the love of ME, people, could you stop posting vapid, pedestrian, mediocre excerpts from song lyrics that a three-year old could have churned out during an inspired potty squeege? Sweet Jesu — what compels a person to take the time to type up “Yeah, baby — yeah; you’re mine and I’m yours and that’s the way it will always be”? This is such a good lyric that it had to be electronically broadcast to the world? This made you sit up and say, “Wow — that’s deep. I must share this.” Cripes. Meanwhile, Johnny Mercer dwells in Facebook obscurity — in the dark refuse pile of the un-tweeted — despite having written:
Like painted kites, those days and nights they went flying by.
The world was new, beneath a blue umbrella sky,
Then softer than a piper man, one day it called to you —
I lost you, I lost you to the summer wind.
No, while the true lyric geniuses reside only in the minds of the old, and asphyxiate in the plastic-wrapped record collections of aficionados, the spinners of poetic phrases like, “Shake it for me baby” and “Yeah, you got the right stuff” shine in pixelated glory on the walls of Facebook lyric-pushers and the words of Mordred, from Camelot, are but a fragmented memory in the popular collective consciousness. No one will try to fit Alan Jay Lerner’s lyrics into their status box, no matter how brazenly the saucy bastard eschews clean-living:
The seven deadly virtues, those ghastly little traps —
Oh no, my liege, they were not meant for me.
Those seven deadly virtues were made for other chaps
Who love a life of failure and ennui.
“Take courage”-now there’s a sport —
An invitation to the state of rigor mort.
And “purity”-a noble yen
And very restful every now and then.
I find humility means to be hurt.
It’s not the Earth the meek inherit, it’s the dirt.
Honesty is fatal, it should be taboo —
Diligence-a fate I would hate.
If charity means giving, I give it to you
And fidelity is only for your mate.
You’ll never find a virtue unstatusing my quo or making my Beelzebubble burst.
Let others take the high road, I will take the low.
I cannot wait to rush in where angels fear to go.
With all those seven deadly virtues free and happy little me has not been cursed.
Alas, even the great rock wordsmith Neil Peart will have his “A planet of playthings/We dance on the strings/Of powers we cannot perceive/’The stars aren’t aligned/Or the gods are malign’/Blame is better to give than receive” and his “Living in the limelight, the universal dream/For those who wish to seem/Those who wish to be, must put aside the alienation/Get on with the fascination/The real relation/The underlying theme;” he, I say, and, lesser-known lyrical crafstmen like Glenn Phillips will watch his “Did we expect that life was ever fair?/My God — I sowed a field of rose and reaped a whipping rod” buried in a steaming, brown, corn-pocked mound of Justin Bieber’s pre-pubescent ululations of “Baby, baby, baby oooh; Like baby, baby, baby nooo.”
ENOUGH! It shall cease forthwith.
The Punishment: Let’s put it this way…if the Emperor friend-requests you…watch it.
Now, go forth and obey.
The Emperor will grace the world with a new decree each Tuesday morning.
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