Category: Youtube Favorites

Verily, I am flabbergasted by the response these days of late. Over one hundred thousand souls? Thank ye, from the bottom of my heart.

I now present a morose tune that perhaps we all can relate to. Some of us float like a feather, but at some point or other, we all feel like the creep in the corner. Poor fellow.

The art is a combination of a manuscript margin ornament (I’m sorry, I can’t recall where from), and the little weirdo is a detail from “The Rutland Psalter”.

Listen on Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/hildegard_von_blingin/creep-medieval-style-with-vocals

Lyrics:
When thou wert here before
I could not look thee in the eye
Thou art like an angel
Thy skin makes me cry
Thou float’st like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
Thou’rt so very special
But I am a creep
I am a weirdo
What in hell am I doing here?
I do not belong here
I care not if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want thee to notice
When I am gone
Thou’rt so very special
I wish I was special
But I am a creep
I am a weirdo
What in hell am I doing here?
I do not belong here
She runneth out the door
She runneth out
She run, run, run, run, run
Whatever makes thee happy
Whatever thou want’st
Thou’rt so very special
I wish I was special
But I am a creep
I am a weirdo
What in hell am I doing here?
I do not belong here
I do not belong here

Lo, I do jump on the mummer wagon. I present to ye, Pumped Up Kicks, or henceforth: Buskin Boots. I must thank Cornelius Funk for giving the world his wonderful arrangement, and also my brother, Friar Funk, for providing his heavenly voice.

Original Song: Foster the People
Medieval Arrangement: Cornelius Link https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/watch?v=Kl40J5YMmcI

Listen on Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/hildegard_von_blingin

Lyrics:
Robert hath a swift hand
He doth gaze upon the fyrd, and he maketh a plan
He hath a jaunty cap, perched upon his head, he is a longbowman
He did find an old bow of yew
And a quiver of arrows in his father’s chest, wherefore I cannot say
But he cometh for thee, yea he cometh for thee

All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots
Best ye go, best ye go
Outrun my bow
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots
Best ye go, best ye go, faster than mine arrow

Father worketh all day
And he cometh home late, yea he cometh home late
Mayhaps he bringeth me a gift
For stew is in the pot though it doth taste of grit
I have waited e’re long
Now mine eye is quick and mine arm is strong
I reason with my crooked cap
And say “Thou art an artless, greasy tallow-catch.” Yea

All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots
Best ye go, best ye go
Outrun my bow
All ye bully-rooks with your buskin boots
Best ye go, best ye go, faster than mine arrow