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Come Forth Thou Fandom's Ghod - Brasklapp [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
Karl-Johan

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Come Forth Thou Fandom's Ghod [Jun. 23rd, 2016|06:41 pm]
Karl-Johan
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Finally finished (as much as they can ever be) one of my more long-running filk projects: "Come Forth Thou Fandom's Ghod", based on Carl Michael Bellman's Fredmans sång 32: Afton-Qväde, more commonly known by its opening line "Träd fram du Nattens Gud". (YouTube, one of many.)


Come forth Thou Fandom's Ghod, the Mundane pain to lessen,
Give shelter to the fen, who seek someone who'll listen,
Ignite the Golden Age,
Open and stretch our minds, Sense of Wonder's your lesson,
When other fen engage.

Round Fandom Wonderful, Trufen in bliss are gather'd,
While printing the Fanzines, on Paper ink is slather'd,
From the Mimeo's drum.
Profen and Editors, by worried thoughts are lather'd,
As Mundane makes a Thrum.

Sleep Ye Sacred Foo-Cat, FooFoo is duplicated,
Jophan, touch the Handle, the Drum it is rotated,
To make the perfect zine.
A foo more days to tote, the foothful here are footed,
Befoo the black foo Sign.

Oh Wollheim! drop your pen, and leave the Hekto purple,
Ditto so the Spirit, that gives to Fanminds fertile,
Ghu the purple Beetle.
Vulcan! that is your home, as Fanzines we now staple,
For your Home is lethal.

A Rocket we can see, fiery Spaceship in the Sky,
When Roscoe flies above, to find and help Fen get by,
Make Fanzines legible.
Teeth as keen as chisels, and a promise from his cry,
To Fen so tangible.

Reality of fanac, and the hope of Egoboo,
Rare copy of a Book, that we from the Slushpile drew.
All things to Fen so dear.
Praise to Roscoe's Prophets, Cox and Rapp and Sneary too,
And the promise of Bheer.

Great Spider, full of Grace, let me find a parking place!
As Kusske we do bribe, so our Souls you won't erase.
Give pamphlets to the fen,
Counter missionaries, that from Fandom us displace,
Trufannish is your den.

Now is the peace of Cons, the Feuding it is ending.
Standlee the Gavel rests. The Filkers songs are blending,
And singing through the night.
Puppies, Weasels, quiet! Gafia, you are tending,
With Feuds and Mundane plight.

Trufan, the Con is here, wherever we are meeting,
Where Fanfic we can read, where Fanzines bring you greeting.
It is a tribe of friends.
Lars-Olov's slides are shown, as Fannish hearts are beating,
The Mundane, here it ends.


For those interested, you can find Martin Best's rendition of Paul Britten Austin's translation of Bellman's original text on YouTube.

Thanks to jophan and thnidu for linguistic advice and comments!
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