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The Fountain of Lamneth - Rewritten as a Day in the Life of The Beatles

treeduck

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treeduck

treeduck

Posted
Posted (edited)

That Pub in Lambeth

 

I. In the Abbey

 

I am John;

I am Paul.

I am George.

Ringo is not in my tree.

 

Look at me;

I'm a Beatle.

I'm George Martin;

nothing to get hung about.

 

The studio doors have just been opened,

and they're open very wide.

engineers all around me

and Paul has been here all night again.

 

Just one song I recognize,

the one where John plays guitar lead.

it was bloody easy

though, dead simple and ripped off from Jerry Reed .

 

Now my eyes are drawn toward

the studio in the east.

Fascinates and captivates;

Did we go to India yet?

 

The studio roof opens at sunrise

we'll play up there till tonight,

bursting forth with rocky tunes ,

the roof has fuckingg floodlights.

 

Living one long studio session,

and no touring makes John a dull boy.

I've never seen diamonds in the sky glow

or Lucy and strawberry fields are blue.

 

I do not know if George will be up by dusk.

I live from take to take.

I don't live to keep Paul in weed

I'm off to that pub in Lambeth.

 

 

II. Dickheads and Ninnyhammers

 

Rin-go!

Work(it out), no!

give, live!

all you need is, Love!

Stay or fight, Yoko's right?

Listen to Linda!

 

 

III. No One At the Bar

 

Cringing back to consciousness,

the dampness grips my skin.

The room is pitching violently,

and full of shrieking women.

 

Beerspray blurs my vision.

John spills it walking by so fast.

Save me a drink of cider says Paul .

I'm splashed, helpless, at the bar.

 

Remembering when first I held

a drink in my own hands,

I took a sip so eagerly

and sailed for distant lands.

 

But now the drink's too heavy.

And I just don't understand,

why must Paul and George desert me?

fucck I need to join a new band!

 

Call out for one more beer

and there's no one there to pour.

Shout out for some service here

but no one comes through the door

 

Dry throat suffocation?

or is the barmaids footstep near.

Scream out bloody frustration

but no one's there to hear.

 

IV. Panatella

 

The whiteness of the Beatles album cover

is unfolding in my mind.

I stare around the studio toilet in wonder.

Have I left my beer behind?

 

I catch the scent of cigars

And turn my head, surprised.

My gaze is caught and held and I

am helpless, mesmerized.

 

Panatella, cuban haze.

Oh, let me touch that familiar packet.

smoke falls around me

and I cough as my lungs heave.

 

Music is the meaning of my life?

I prefer cigars to Paul's granny tunes.

Penny Lane, Ob-la-Di and Maxwell's

Silver Hammer don't let me hear them soon

 

Beatles lost our unity,

a curse for ev'ry year.

John's lyrics promise me

boredom through the years.

 

And now I must be gone

recording before the light of dawn.

 

Panatella, tobacco pure.

I can't resist your gentle lure.

My lungs will lie beside you,

and my tickly cough will never leave.

 

 

V. Black Forest Gateau

 

Another endless day.

George's face is grey.

Another studio war.

John and Paul fight with eyes that shine.

 

Fifty days

with that shrill Yoko moaning.

Long nights,

I'm going out of my mind.

 

Ringo has left the band

ah well there's a cast of forty-three.

drummers,to my mem'ry,

who are ten times better than he.

 

Give me back my drum kit.

He said to Paul, c'mon give.

It's just one song it doesn't matter.

There's not much more to do on that one,

anyway Paul said, Ringo doesn't want to live.

 

Another f***ing studio dawn.

eating gateau it's almost gone.

Another doubtful year.

Abbey Road is not so clear.

 

Ringo's back

no one notices at first,

in the end

we act cheerful, f***ing Yoko.

 

VI. The Pub

 

Look at the rest of them lying,

through their teeth, Here Comes the Sun is George's.

See the steps John couldn't make it up

without help from the other two.

 

Hear the arguments reverberating

In my head I need this beer.

Fucck, my head is pounding

the album isn't even halfway finished.

 

For now at least I'm back once more

in this pub in Lambeth.

I'm tired of all that singing,

I'm tired of Yoko's breath.

 

Many days end here,

and the beer tastes the same.

That bathroom Window song is just too much to handle,

John thinks that Linda's to blame.

 

The key, the end, the answer,

strip them of their women.

otherwise it's all confusion,

well it is to my eyes.

 

Though I've reached the end of this post;

it's really not the end.

Like old Geoff back in the studio,

I'll be going there again.

 

I'm not sure which Beatle I am.

I am Paul?.

I am George?.

I am Yoko? John?.

I'm George Martin.

I'm a part of this band.

forever, oh god

am I the drummer from 1960? Pete Best. No.

Still, I am.

Edited by treeduck
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losingit2k

losingit2k

Posted
Posted

That Pub in Lambeth

 

I. In the Abbey

 

I am John;

I am Paul.

I am George.

Ringo is not in my tree.

 

Look at me;

I'm a Beatle.

I'm George Martin;

nothing to get hung about.

 

The studio doors have just been opened,

and they're open very wide.

engineers all around me

and Paul has been here all night again.

 

Just one song I recognize,

the one where John plays guitar lead.

it was bloody easy

though, dead simple and ripped off from Jerry Reed .

 

Now my eyes are drawn toward

the studio in the east.

Fascinates and captivates;

Did we go to India yet?

 

The studio roof opens at sunrise

we'll play up there till tonight,

bursting forth with rocky tunes ,

the roof has fuckingg floodlights.

 

Living one long studio session,

and no touring makes John a dull boy.

I've never seen diamonds in the sky glow

or Lucy and strawberry fields are blue.

 

I do not know if George will be up by dusk.

I live from take to take.

I don't live to keep Paul in weed

I'm off to that pub in Lambeth.

 

 

II. Dickheads and Ninnyhammers

 

Rin-go!

Work(it out), no!

give, live!

all you need is, Love!

Stay or fight, Yoko's right?

Listen to Linda!

 

 

III. No One At the Bar

 

Cringing back to consciousness,

the dampness grips my skin.

The room is pitching violently,

and full of shrieking women.

 

Beerspray blurs my vision.

John spills it walking by so fast.

Save me a drink of cider says Paul .

I'm splashed, helpless, at the bar.

 

Remembering when first I held

a drink in my own hands,

I took a sip so eagerly

and sailed for distant lands.

 

But now the drink's too heavy.

And I just don't understand,

why must Paul and George desert me?

fucck I need to join a new band!

 

Call out for one more beer

and there's no one there to pour.

Shout out for some service here

but no one comes through the door

 

Dry throat suffocation?

or is the barmaids footstep near.

Scream out bloody frustration

but no one's there to hear.

 

IV. Panatella

 

The whiteness of the Beatles album cover

is unfolding in my mind.

I stare around the studio toilet in wonder.

Have I left my beer behind?

 

I catch the scent of cigars

And turn my head, surprised.

My gaze is caught and held and I

am helpless, mesmerized.

 

Panatella, cuban haze.

Oh, let me touch that familiar packet.

smoke falls around me

and I cough as my lungs heave.

 

Music is the meaning of my life?

I prefer cigars to Paul's granny tunes.

Penny Lane, Ob-la-Di and Maxwell's

Silver Hammer don't let me hear them soon

 

Beatles lost our unity,

a curse for ev'ry year.

John's lyrics promise me

boredom through the years.

 

And now I must be gone

recording before the light of dawn.

 

Panatella, tobacco pure.

I can't resist your gentle lure.

My lungs will lie beside you,

and my tickly cough will never leave.

 

 

V. Black Forest Gateau

 

Another endless day.

George's face is grey.

Another studio war.

John and Paul fight with eyes that shine.

 

Fifty days

with that shrill Yoko moaning.

Long nights,

I'm going out of my mind.

 

Ringo has left the band

ah well there's a cast of forty-three.

drummers,to my mem'ry,

who are ten times better than he.

 

Give me back my drum kit.

He said to Paul, c'mon give.

It's just one song it doesn't matter.

There's not much more to do on that one,

anyway Paul said, Ringo doesn't want to live.

 

Another f***ing studio dawn.

eating gateau it's almost gone.

Another doubtful year.

Abbey Road is not so clear.

 

Ringo's back

no one notices at first,

in the end

we act cheerful, f***ing Yoko.

 

VI. The Pub

 

Look at the rest of them lying,

through their teeth, Here Comes the Sun is George's.

See the steps John couldn't make it up

without help from the other two.

 

Hear the arguments reverberating

In my head I need this beer.

Fucck, my head is pounding

the album isn't even halfway finished.

 

For now at least I'm back once more

in this pub in Lambeth.

I'm tired of all that singing,

I'm tired of Yoko's breath.

 

Many days end here,

and the beer tastes the same.

That bathroom Window song is just too much to handle,

John thinks that Linda's to blame.

 

The key, the end, the answer,

strip them of their women.

otherwise it's all confusion,

well it is to my eyes.

 

Though I've reached the end of this post;

it's really not the end.

Like old Geoff back in the studio,

I'll be going there again.

 

I'm not sure which Beatle I am.

I am Paul?.

I am George?.

I am Yoko? John?.

I'm George Martin.

I'm a part of this band.

forever, oh god

am I the drummer from 1960? Pete Best. No.

Still, I am.

Bravo! Pretty Amazing!

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treeduck

treeduck

Posted
  • Author
Posted

That Pub in Lambeth

 

I. In the Abbey

 

I am John;

I am Paul.

I am George.

Ringo is not in my tree.

 

Look at me;

I'm a Beatle.

I'm George Martin;

nothing to get hung about.

 

The studio doors have just been opened,

and they're open very wide.

engineers all around me

and Paul has been here all night again.

 

Just one song I recognize,

the one where John plays guitar lead.

it was bloody easy

though, dead simple and ripped off from Jerry Reed .

 

Now my eyes are drawn toward

the studio in the east.

Fascinates and captivates;

Did we go to India yet?

 

The studio roof opens at sunrise

we'll play up there till tonight,

bursting forth with rocky tunes ,

the roof has fuckingg floodlights.

 

Living one long studio session,

and no touring makes John a dull boy.

I've never seen diamonds in the sky glow

or Lucy and strawberry fields are blue.

 

I do not know if George will be up by dusk.

I live from take to take.

I don't live to keep Paul in weed

I'm off to that pub in Lambeth.

 

 

II. Dickheads and Ninnyhammers

 

Rin-go!

Work(it out), no!

give, live!

all you need is, Love!

Stay or fight, Yoko's right?

Listen to Linda!

 

 

III. No One At the Bar

 

Cringing back to consciousness,

the dampness grips my skin.

The room is pitching violently,

and full of shrieking women.

 

Beerspray blurs my vision.

John spills it walking by so fast.

Save me a drink of cider says Paul .

I'm splashed, helpless, at the bar.

 

Remembering when first I held

a drink in my own hands,

I took a sip so eagerly

and sailed for distant lands.

 

But now the drink's too heavy.

And I just don't understand,

why must Paul and George desert me?

fucck I need to join a new band!

 

Call out for one more beer

and there's no one there to pour.

Shout out for some service here

but no one comes through the door

 

Dry throat suffocation?

or is the barmaids footstep near.

Scream out bloody frustration

but no one's there to hear.

 

IV. Panatella

 

The whiteness of the Beatles album cover

is unfolding in my mind.

I stare around the studio toilet in wonder.

Have I left my beer behind?

 

I catch the scent of cigars

And turn my head, surprised.

My gaze is caught and held and I

am helpless, mesmerized.

 

Panatella, cuban haze.

Oh, let me touch that familiar packet.

smoke falls around me

and I cough as my lungs heave.

 

Music is the meaning of my life?

I prefer cigars to Paul's granny tunes.

Penny Lane, Ob-la-Di and Maxwell's

Silver Hammer don't let me hear them soon

 

Beatles lost our unity,

a curse for ev'ry year.

John's lyrics promise me

boredom through the years.

 

And now I must be gone

recording before the light of dawn.

 

Panatella, tobacco pure.

I can't resist your gentle lure.

My lungs will lie beside you,

and my tickly cough will never leave.

 

 

V. Black Forest Gateau

 

Another endless day.

George's face is grey.

Another studio war.

John and Paul fight with eyes that shine.

 

Fifty days

with that shrill Yoko moaning.

Long nights,

I'm going out of my mind.

 

Ringo has left the band

ah well there's a cast of forty-three.

drummers,to my mem'ry,

who are ten times better than he.

 

Give me back my drum kit.

He said to Paul, c'mon give.

It's just one song it doesn't matter.

There's not much more to do on that one,

anyway Paul said, Ringo doesn't want to live.

 

Another f***ing studio dawn.

eating gateau it's almost gone.

Another doubtful year.

Abbey Road is not so clear.

 

Ringo's back

no one notices at first,

in the end

we act cheerful, f***ing Yoko.

 

VI. The Pub

 

Look at the rest of them lying,

through their teeth, Here Comes the Sun is George's.

See the steps John couldn't make it up

without help from the other two.

 

Hear the arguments reverberating

In my head I need this beer.

Fucck, my head is pounding

the album isn't even halfway finished.

 

For now at least I'm back once more

in this pub in Lambeth.

I'm tired of all that singing,

I'm tired of Yoko's breath.

 

Many days end here,

and the beer tastes the same.

That bathroom Window song is just too much to handle,

John thinks that Linda's to blame.

 

The key, the end, the answer,

strip them of their women.

otherwise it's all confusion,

well it is to my eyes.

 

Though I've reached the end of this post;

it's really not the end.

Like old Geoff back in the studio,

I'll be going there again.

 

I'm not sure which Beatle I am.

I am Paul?.

I am George?.

I am Yoko? John?.

I'm George Martin.

I'm a part of this band.

forever, oh god

am I the drummer from 1960? Pete Best. No.

Still, I am.

Bravo! Pretty Amazing!

 

:cheers:

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Del_Duio

Del_Duio

Posted
Posted

"Ringo has left the band

ah well there's a cast of forty-three.

drummers,to my mem'ry,

who are ten times better than he."

 

Hahahaha!

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CygnusGal

CygnusGal

Posted
Posted

An excellent rendition, treeduck! Wonderful!

http://www.thescifiworld.net/img/smilies/galactica/cylon/cylon_newanime006.gif

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JohnnyBlaze

JohnnyBlaze

Posted
Posted

Pssst this thread is the alternative to the Are Rush Better Than The Beatles thread...

 

:martini:

Coincidentally, I made a post in that thread about 2 weeks ago that had a line from Tom Sawyer and A Day In The Life. But this thread goes way beyond that and any psychiatric evaluation
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treeduck

treeduck

Posted
  • Author
Posted

Pssst this thread is the alternative to the Are Rush Better Than The Beatles thread...

 

:martini:

Coincidentally, I made a post in that thread about 2 weeks ago that had a line from Tom Sawyer and A Day In The Life. But this thread goes way beyond that and any psychiatric evaluation

:smoke:

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