Other Silly Songs


Isaac Bonewits

Songs on this page: The Fundamentalists' Song, Pariah, The Wannabee Shaman, With Friends Like These, The Wizard.

Typographical notes: A tilde (~) is used to indicate ornamentation throughout, with double tildes indicating more of the same. Either a slash (/) or an "incorrect" comma may be used to indicate phrasing. Foreign language text (usually Irish) is set in a "Plain" typeface, since diacriticals (accent marks) in italics are too hard to read. Lines in italics usually indicate a chorus or refrain.

The Fundamentalists' Song

Words & music by Isaac Bonewits
Copyright © 1997, 2001 c.e.


A flying saucer came one night
And gave two men an awful fright
As it hovered six feet overhead.
The pilot stuck its beak outside,
Asked them if they'd like a ride,
And as they were beamed up they loudly said:

"We can't believe, we won't believe,
We can't believe our eyes!
No matter how much proof we see,
We skeptics say it cannot be,
Cause we know scientifically,
We can't believe our eyes, oh no!
We won't believe our eyes."

The Committee to Debunk All Stuff
That We Find Scary was quite rough,
And nasty to the psychic research team.
Till the psychic gave a mighty frown
And turned the skeptics upside down,
And threw them round the room as they did scream:

"We can't believe, we won't believe,
We can't believe our eyes!
No matter how much proof we see,
We skeptics know it cannot be,
Cause we say scientifically,
We can't believe our eyes, oh no!
We won't believe our eyes."

It was at the Garden Exhibition
That a third-rate stage magician
Pulled a plastic bouquet from his clothes.
"Here's all the evidence we need,"
He proudly said, "I've done the deed,
I've proved there's no such thing as a real rose!"

"We can't believe, we won't believe,
We can't believe our eyes!
No matter how much proof we see,
We skeptics say it cannot be,
Cause we know fundamentally,
We can't believe our eyes, oh no!
We won't believe our eyes."

Just a song for the devout scientolators and other worshipers of 19 century materialism who call themselves "sceptics" (as distinct from real scientists). Back to Top of Page


© 1989, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music by Lerner & Lowe ("They Call the Wind Mariah")
Key of __

Way out here they've got a name
For folks who tobacco fire:
The wind is "soft," the air is "pure,"
So my smoke makes me "pariah!"

Pariah! Pariah! My smoke makes me pariah!

When I pull out a cigarette,
Their voices all get higher.
They're quick to offer me a light --
For my funeral pyre!

Pariah! Pariah! My smoke makes me pariah!

If it's a cold and rainy night,
And I light up where it's drier,
The heartless fiends will throw me out
To fizzle in the mire!

Pariah! Pariah! My smoke makes me pariah!

[Spoken:] And rightfully so!

While I used to smoke a pipe or a cigar occasionally, I've always felt that smoking was one of those activities that should be done in private between consenting adults (or as another solitary vice). Back to Top of Page

Wannabee Shaman

© 1990, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music trad. ("The Dying Cowboy/Streets of Laredo")

Hey nonny, / hey nonny, / hey nonny, / no!
Hey nonny, / hey nonny, / hey nonny, / no!

As I was out riding the plains of the astral
I spied an old codger a-walking my way.
His clothes were of leather with fringes all beaded,
His face it was covered with symbols in clay.

"I see by your feather that you are a shaman,"
These words he did say as he slowly drew nigh.
"Come down from your high horse and hear my sad story,
My spirit is broken and I want to cry.

I once was a young man both healthy and handsome,
My heart filled with bright love, granola and peace.
I yearned for a true path both Native and New Age,
So I joined the tribe of the Wannabees.

The way that it happened was really quite simple,
I went to a lecture my school did present.
A Native American teacher was talking
About the old ways and what they all meant.

Well after the lecture I walked right up to him,
And boldly to him I said out of the blue,
'I see by your feather that you are a shaman.
If I buy a feather, will you make me one too?'

His face it went through a dozen expressions.
The people around us all stared angrily.
Then he smiled and he said, in a voice oh so cheerful,
'Sure I'll teach you kid, and I'll do it for free!'

He took me back home to his condo on Main Street
And made me apprentice for over a year.
I cooked all his meals and I did all his laundry,
And when he was horney, he buggered my rear.

He taught me to speak in the Wannabee language,
And all of their customs, though I must confess,
Although 'twas authentic, I always felt stupid
Doing the shopping while wearing a dress.

After a year of this I got impatient,
I was sure I knew all that I needed to know.
So while he was out at a pow-wow in Jersey,
I stole his peyote and went with the flow.

Well first I threw up for a couple of hours,
And found myself wishing that I would soon die.
I grabbed for my feather and prayed to my crystal,
The next thing I knew I was starting to fly!

I flew out the window and far from the city,
I knew that my spirit guide I would soon find.
And sure enough floating high over the forest
I met a coyote of the spirit kind.

'I see by your feather that you are a shaman,'
These words he did say as he hovered quite near.
'No doubt since you've learned all the Wannabee secrets,'
The coyote he grinned, 'You've got nothing to fear.'

Then an ominous screetching did grab my attention.
A dozen black eagles were flying around.
With sharp beaks and talons they tore me to pieces,
And I fell down screaming all over the ground.

Soon foxes and wolverines tore at my entrails,
And ripped off great hunks of my poor bleeding meat.
Then a huge swarm of hornets came stinging and biting,
And polished my bones all so shiny and neat.

Now I felt every tooth and I felt every stinger,
My consciousness through the ordeal was clear.
I kept right on screaming, though I had no throat left,
Until the coyote again did appear.

'You still have your feather, young shaman,' he told me,
'So I must assume that you really know how
To remake your spirit self better than ever.'
Coyote he grinned, 'So let's do it right now!'

I took a deep breath, though I had me no lungs left,
And started to chant every Wannabee prayer,
To summon back all of the parts that were missing,
My bone and my muscles, my skin and my hair.

'Hey, Kemosabe,' my spirit guide told me,
'You're doing quite well with those first year chants.
'Course you know that to get yourself all back together,
'You're going to be needing the seventh year dance!'

'Uh-oh,' I said, 'I think I'm in trouble,
'Could you possibly give me a little hand here?'
'Sorry, young fella,' Coyote laughed softly,
'The rules against that now are really quite clear.'

"So here I am walking, the plains of the astral,
"Stuck here forever, or so it would seem.
"Hoping to find me a genuine shaman,
"Who'll know how to help me recover my dream."

"Sure thing, Kemosabe," I told the young codger,
"I know where to send you to fix up your vibe.
"Just go through those trees there, and down to the meadow.
"You'll find a whole village of the Wannabee tribe!"

I bid him farewell and returned to my saddle,
And soon I was riding back out on the prowl.
'Twas hard, but I waited, till he couldn't hear me,
Before I let loose with my Coyote howl!


 Dedicated to the ancient and mystical Nacirema tribe. Back to Top of Page

With Friends Like These

© 1997, 2001 c.e.
words (except bridge) by Isaac Bonewits
music from the TV show, "Love and Marriage"
(Works best with a little softshoe)


Gawd and Satan, Gawd and Satan,
Those archetypes of fear and guilt and hatin';
You know, my sisters and brothers,
You can't have one without the -- other!~

Nasty old Yahweh, in His heyday,
Said good and evil were both under His sway;
And that loser Sa~tan,
Was just the D.A. working for the -- Man!~

Try, try, try to separate them;
It's an illusion.
Why, why, try to complicate them?
You only come to this conclusion:

Satanic preachers, fill their bleachers,
With such pathetic, neurotic creatures;
Beneath their high-tech scammin',
The leaders worship good old -- Mam~mon!

Snarlin' and sneerin', so endearin',
They think they're scary but all we're fearin',
Is that they need more ba~ths,
These followers of Left Hand -- Paths!~

Try, try, try to separate them;
It's an illusion.
Why, why, try to complicate them?
You only come to this conclusion:

T.O.S.-ers, C.O.S.-ers,
The Internet is full of these B.S.-ers;
Their arguments are callow,
'Cause way down deep inside they're -- shal~low!

Should Neopagans, accept these Fagins,
The Satanists who say they're "just like" Pagans?
They offer what we lack:
A poisoned knife, a poisoned knife,
A poisoned knife in the -- back!~

"TOS" = "Temple of Set," "COS" = "Church of Satan". If you don't know anything about "real" Satanists, as distinct from Satanic Panic-ers' fantasies about them, read my essays The Enemies of Our Enemies and My Satanic Adventure. For shining examples of Satanic brilliance and witty reparté, read their newsgroups on usenet. Back to Top of Page


© 1983, 2001 c.e.
words by Isaac Bonewits
music by Schlitz & Kenny Rogers ("The Gambler")
Key of C

On a cold Samhain midnight, the God we were invoking,
When an old man walked out from the woods, and calmly cut a gate.
And as we stared astonished, he strode into our circle,
Smiling sweetly, as he said, "I hope I'm not too late."

He said, "Kids I've spent nine lifetimes, readin' people's auras,
"And knowin' what their powers were, by the way they cast each spell.
"And I can see by lookin' that you've all run out of magic.
"For a taste, of your chalice there, some truths to you I'll tell."

So we handed him our chalice, and he drained it in one swallow.
Offered him the pentacle ­ he inhaled all of our cakes!
And we all got weirdly quiet, as he belched, and started talking,
"If you're gonna, practice magic kids, you gotta learn just what it takes:"

You got to know when to banish, know when to vanish,
Know when to back away, and know when to stand.
You never count your karma, when you're dancin' in the circle;
There'll be time for counting karma, in the Summerland!

"Now every wizard knows, that the tough part of the old ways,
"Is knowin' when to keep your peace ­ and when to pick a fight!
"See the Gods gave you your magics, well knowin' you was mortal;
"Expecting little, save that you, would try to use 'em right!"

You got to know...

And when he'd finished speakin', he gave us all a big smile,
Jumped up lightly to his feet, and led us round the ring.
And when the dance was over, we look both high and low --
He was gone, but still we had, some wisdom we could sing:

You got to know...

One of my most popular songs, I wrote it because I was sick of "fluffy bunny" Pagans who refuse to actually use their magic to stop evil.

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