Song Parodies -> "Just Plain Dread"

Original Song Title:

"Dread and the Fugitive Mind"

Original Performer:

"Just Plain Dread"

Parody Written by:

The Lyrics

I tried to learn what this song was about, and it isn't about 'a common thief'. Such people tend to not feel *real* guilt, and the only consequences are *not* 'dread and the fugitive mind'. However, even if the original lyrics were probably a million miles from E. A. Poe, I can think of at least one story that fits the *idea* behind those lyrics: "The Masque of the Red Death." Hence these below.

In despite he shall revile,
A country brought to its knees,
Is this a stated denial,
And am I just a disease?
I own all of the outer lands,
My court the crimson release,
I'm too small for clutching hands,
Only in death shall I cease.

The seven rooms were his but I've taken them,
He thought himself hidden, but he's become my slave.

What if his priest finds a cure? What if he forstalls judgement?
If he succeeds, I lose nothing; if he doesn't, I kill them all,
I should be stopped, for I am killing *everything*.
I feel nothing, not even remorse, and the only possible end
is death for Prospero's Masqers.

Your fortress walls stand tall,
hazy smoke, burning villages, all!
Drunken revels every night,
Now blood-curses burn your sight
The one you sought to hide from,
Now that fiend has truly come,
Life has left you with the sun,
And you cannot find your gun!

The seven rooms were his, but I've taken them,
He thought himself hidden, but he's become my slave.

What if his priest finds a cure? What if he forstalls judgement?
If he succeeds, I lose nothing; if he doesn't, I kill them all,
I should be stopped, for I am killing *everything*.
I feel nothing, not even remorse, and the only possible end
is death for Prospero's Masqers.

Another comment, however: society calls those like *me* a 'social disease', which gives this song such poignancy - especially the tormenting gospel spread by the hurtful children of my boyhood: to touch my ear meant losing the use of one's hand as it shriveled, withered, and then fell rotten to the ground. Such was the potency of deformity then; now it is the deformity of I myself, for I am social inept and therefore thrice-damned by society. "If you touch my ear, you'd better count your fingers." They said that then. I am not sure of what they speak now, but it is likely to be worse yet. After all, sympathy lies (as a rule) with the murdering caretakers of such troublesome children as I recall myself being regarded: and to kill them is such sweet revenge (in their murderer's minds, anyway). More, society permits such killings, if you go by the liency of the courts and their frequent acquitals and 'slap on the wrist' sentencing for the murder of the handicapped.

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