This is a bare little song, on a text I found in an old children’s encyclopedia, The Book of Wonders (1915):

Why do we have to die?  Death must come to all things that have life.  All matter in the world is either living or dead.  Inanimate things do not change.  They remain always the same.  Death is one of the things that must occur if we are to have more life.

A setting of my translation of a poem by La Fontaine (one of his tales, not one of his fables), for voice and ‘cello.

Once Sister Jean had borne a child,
Her piety was unexcelled.
The other nuns, though undefiled,
Had cravings they had not dispelled.
“Our Jean,” the Abbess said with pride,
“Has set all sinful thoughts aside.
You all should strive to be so clean.”
“We will,” piped up one younger nun.
“We all will be as good as Jean,
When we have done what Jean has done.”

Do you want to be like the inchworm?  We have a rather glum song here, as befits the subject.

The inchworm’s life is mild and meek;
His prospects look a little bleak.
All day he creeps, and creeps, and creeps,
And creeps, and creeps, and then he sleeps.
When morning comes, he wakes and eats
A bit of leaf, and then excretes;
And then he creeps again, because
That’s all he knows and all he does.
And he continues in this dim
Routine, till someone steps on him,
Or till some peckish thrush or finch
Decides to make a lunch of inch.
Poor inchworm! When he is no more,
He’s not much different than before.

This is taken from my 1993 show, Eddie Unchained.  In this selection, Victoria, a caterer, is preparing refreshments for Eddie’s birthday party.  Victoria was played by Ivy Austin; she was accompanied by a string quartet of Robert Zubrycki, Cenovia Cummins, Carol Benner, and Benjamin Whittenburg.

I found this scathing verse by Jean Richepin, and did my best to translate it.  I intended to set it to music, but discovered that Georges Brassens had already done that.  So, I illustrated it instead; and have projected and recited it in various theaters.

Philistine, you copulate
With your lawful wedded mate,
Dreaming,
Dreaming,

Of the children you will breed
From the spreading of your seed,
Hoping,
Hoping,

They will be upstanding ones:
Tidy, sturdy, barbered sons,
Bankers,
Bankers.

Nature, though, to punish you,
Will provide you quite a few,
Many,
Many,

Children that you will not want:
Wild, impractical, and gaunt,
Poets,
Poets.

Nature has the final word,
Growing from the ripest turd
Roses,
Roses.

And here are the titles, and the roses.

A setting of a curious nonsense poem, attributed to Richard Corbett (1582-1635).  The accompaniment can be played either by piano or by violin and ‘cello.  Here’s the first bit.

A querulous little rumination, that begins like this.

Back in 1977, some of the members of the Oberlin Dance Collective, plus a few others, put on a show of work that didn’t quite fit into ODC.  I contributed a program, an 8mm film collage, and artwork and deviled eggs for the lobby.