Art and Education

I had the pleasure recently to be interviewed about my perspective on artistry, creativity and music education. The ideas that came out in the discussion seemed worthy to gather into more concise coherence and so this little article, directed to Orff Schulwerk teachers, but relevant to all music teachers and even to all teachers who might consider how to integrate their own passion for their field of study with igniting their students’ interest. 

 

        Art and Education: An Orff Schulwerk Perspective

© 2022 Doug Goodkin

In introducing the Orff-Schulwerk Volumes, Eberhard Preussner wrote:

 

“One cannot value too highly the special fact that it is a composer who has introduced this fundamental reform in the field of music education. This gives it an unusual unity between educational exercise and style of improvisation that makes Orff-Schulwerk a work of reference for the whole of today’s music and music education. It also enables progress from the educational to the artistic to be made without a break, or rather that from the very beginning are and education are bound together as one unity, from the simplest pentatonic exercise to the proven art style… This therefore a demanding production, that not only presuppose the collaboration of the teacher, but also their continuing the work on the basis of these fundamentals…” (p. 227—The Schulwerk)

 

The Orff teacher is the one who refuses the cliché— “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” First off, the reality for just about any artist is that they will teach. Whether private lessons or group classes, occasional or daily, the artist often is a teacher both for financial reasons and for artistic reasons. If they must teach for practical reasons, why not learn how to teach artistically?

 

For the artists fortunate enough to stumble into Orff Schulwerk, they discover the possibility of keeping the thread between art and education unbroken in their own development.  They discover how they can bring their highest artistic impulses into each class, be the students three or thirteen or thirty-three years old. They consider how to get the maximum musicality out of the minimum number of notes and technique and theoretical understanding, find beauty in the simplicity of a drone with a pentatonic scale, discover how to create complex effects from simple elements. 

 

When trained in this way, putting on a Spring Concert featuring children from 1st through 8^th grade will be quite different from the parents’ expectations of a school concert.  They will find themselves as enchanted by the 1^{s t}graders playing Rain, Rain Go Awayon the Orff instruments as they are by the Middle Schoolers playing Balinese gamelan, Vivaldi and Jazz Blues on the same instruments. Instead of squeaky clarinets and out-of-tune violins playing complex music at an elementary level, they are playing both simple and complex music at an elemental level. Each developmental level is matched to its particular dignity and delight so that a 2nd grade musician is not an unformed 6^thgrade musician, but a fully-formed 2^ndgrade artist playing music that communicates to all ages. Elemental music, as envisioned by Orff and carried through by his successors, makes this possible.

 

The question of repertoire is fundamental. Consider choosing that which has withstood the test of time— authentic folk music of diverse styles, European classical music and American jazz— over the mere cute and contrived or contemporary pop music. Texts from Mother Goose, proverbs, classic poetry of all sorts and the plays we produced from folk tales, myths, classic children’s literature. At the same time that you lean toward the tried-and-true, keep your ear to the ground for the current and contemporary that meets elemental criteria— simple, payable, singable and memorable. Most importantly, by adapting classical repertoire to the Orff instrument ensemble, to children’s developmental levels, to the Orff invitation to widen the media into dance, body percussion, chant, drama, you will make each piece contemporary, new and fresh.By including improvisation and inviting children to help arrange and re-compose, artistry will be fully present in the educational venture. 

 

Thirdly, in addition to choosing music with artistic depth, consider that the very process of teaching should be musical. Imagine each class as a composition in itself, with an enticing beginning, connected middle and satisfying end. The details of this are all in my book Teach Like It’s Music: An Artful Approach to Education. 

 

These are some of the ways by which to keep your own artistic process and growth alive inside of the classroom so that teaching need not compete with your artistic development, but actually help feed and nurture it. At the same time, find time to keep our artistry growing outside of the classroom.  Leave time to practice your craft, to play, sing and dance with others, to perform. Consider studying a new instrument or new musical or dance style. Listen to everything you can, attend concerts, go to museums. 

 

If you are as excited about teaching as you are about performance, you’ll find your artistic interests and breakthroughs coming into the classroom with you and new ideas stimulated by your experiences— an integrated arts unit inspired by your trip to the museum, a new piece that you want to try after hearing it at the jazz concert, a new poem that suggests a movement study. If you lean more towards the performance end of the spectrum, you may find ideas arising in your classes that will find their way into your work. 

 

In short, the marriage between your artistic self and your teacher self can be the perfect balance that enlivens and enriches both parties. Orff Schulwerk is the officiant at the wedding, joining them in a holy matrimony. 

 

In summary: 

1) Pick the highest quality material in your work with children.

2) Teach in such a way that the class itself is like a piece of music or choreographed dance.

3) Keep your own artistry alive and growing throughout your teaching life by:

        • Practicing and improving what you know.

         • Studying new instruments/ musical styles/ dance styles.

         • Creating with and performing with other musicians/ dancers.

 

Each music teacher will have their own blend of artful education and educational artistry. By keeping the conversation alive between them, the world of music education is elevated and the children are uplifted. 

 

  

Hero Worship

I’m sure some tourist who went to Hawaii some five years ago are still talking about that toddler who had an hour-long tantrum because he forgot to bring his Batman hat on the hike. That was my grandson Malik and now at seven years old, he is my hero. One of the happiest and most resilient human beings I know.

 

For example, when Alaska Airlines lowered the age when you can fly alone, he was thrilled to come spend a week with Pop-Pop and Mima without his sister. He was put on a plane by his other Grannie in Salt lake City, the plane taxied off and then got a flat tire, went back to the gate and all the passengers disembarked to wait for two more hours before it was fixed. He called me on a little watch/phone gizmo his Grannie had bought him and was happily eating a burger with a flight attendant, non-plussed about the whole thing. It was some five hours since Grannie left him at the airport before he arrived in San Francisco and while all the adults in the story were stressed and worried, he was cool as a cuke. What changed to make the Batman-hat tantrum change to the resilient first-flight alone at seven years old?

 

Well, maturation for one. One of the pleasures of kids growing older is gaining more control over their bodies, minds and emotions. Things like breaking the reading code— which Malik did in an astounding way, moving from the stilted short sentences of the Bob Books to whole pages of Harry Potter in an explosive 5-year old breakthrough of a couple of months. Then all the Montessori tasks of increased independence— tying shoes, cutting carrots, cutting with scissors, baking a hurry-up cake (or helping Pop-Pop with pancakes)— that make a child less dependent on the presence of adults. Knowing things gives a pleasurable power to one’s life, increased body coordination that had him making over 50 baskets the other day at the adult basketball court, riding a bike, swimming, skateboarding, etc. Who cares about a Batman hat when there’s so much to do  each day?

 

It also helped to be away from his sister, with the full attention of his doting grandparents. Despite the claims of the book Siblings Without Rivalry (a book that Cain and Abel failed to read), it was a pleasure to bypass the constant bickering and Zadie’s plaintiff “MALIIIIIK!!!!”

Finally, I think it’s also a matter of temperament, just the way he has grown into a happy, self-possessed and resilient kid. It truly was extraordinary how in 6 full days, there wasn’t a single tear, whine, eye-roll, confrontation. He ate all his dinner, helped out when we asked him and generally responded to our requests to do something or stop doing something the first time, something that had never happened before. Not wanting to jinx it, I didn’t say anything about it out loud, but on the last day, I decided to take him to the Conservatory of Flowers and met my first resistance. “Why do we have to go there?” he whined, even as he had no idea what there was. That’s when I told him that he was about to make the world record of no upsets or no whining the whole visit, so I invited him to respond with, “That’s a great idea, Pop-Pop. I can’t wait!” when I repeated the question. I did and he did and he actually really enjoyed the place with its giant lily pads and insect-eating plants. So we made it over that hurdle without knocking it down.

 

On Saturday, our last day, we awoke at 4:30 am to get to the airport for his 6:15 flight. The traffic was flawless (though still I wondered the story behind each of the hundred or so cars we saw out on the road so early on a Saturday morning) and so we arrived at the ticket counter at 5:05, only to encounter an uncomfortably long line. I’ll spare the details, but even as we got our ticket with 45 minutes to spare and no checked luggage, a man insisted we would not make the flight and would have to re-book. There were Malik’s first tears. Though he loved the week with us, he had been three weeks away from home (a visit to the other grandparents before us) and was ready to see his parents, his room and even his sister. He was sad, I was pissed off, we had to re-book for a 4:00 flight that afternoon. Before we left the airport, I took him off to the side and said, “Let’s have a hug. Do you want to cry a little with me?” And he said with a bright voice, “Hey, when we get back to your house, we can finish the movie (The Music Man) we couldn’t finish last night!” 

 

And that was that. He was back to his bouncy, happy self. I made him pancakes while he watched, joined him at the end of the movie, we both tried to nap a bit before he started jumping on me and off we went to the movie theater to see Lightyear and have lunch in a mall where I never go, but seemed to be a treat for him. Then to the airport and this time he got on and the plane actually left on time.

 

In a country where more and more grown adults are throwing tantrums akin to “I WANT MY BATMAN HAT!!!!” this seven-year-old young man is my new hero. We all have a lot to learn from him.

Snips and Snails

As the long slide to 1951 reminds me on the online pull-down birthdate menu, the 1950’s of my childhood were a different country, if not a different planet, in numerous ways. When it comes to the gender discussion, this was a time when the only known labels for those who leaned toward the other side of the midline were “tomboy” and “sissy” and neither of them complimentary. Girls were “sugar and spice and everything nice” (though I wished they told that to the girls who used to tease me or certain adult women throughout my life) and boys were “snips and snails and puppy dog tails” (though none of us ever knew what a “snip” was unless it meant cutting of the braid of the girl who sat in front of us at school. And what’s with the snails and puppy dog tails? Probably smashing the one and pulling the other). 

 

I was pretty much a boy’s boy, which meant that I was pretty good in sports, could hold my own in a neighborhood fight, loved watching war movies and thought John Wayne was cool, and my Uncle George often gave me a toy gun for Christmas (though one time a drum). Playing the piano and listening to my parent’s classical music records was not wholly on the stereotype’s agenda, but Beethoven was my man because I loved his thunderous temper and explosive symphonic bursts and was taken by the story of him raising himself up on his deathbed and shaking his fist at the Gods in defiance. 

 

But there must have been some watering of the feminine in my nature in those early years or how could it have blossomed as it did when I began to grow my hair long just before going to college? Perhaps the tender slow movements of Beethoven helped lead me to later Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins and later still, ballads sung by Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. I’m sure a childhood habit of constant reading certainly helped lead me to Whitman and Thoreau and the possibility of communing with Nature rather than brutalizing it, helped open the doors to e.e.cummings singing of Spring and Love, the Incredible String Band weaving their magical landscapes, and the long path of poetry (hardly a boy’s boy pastime!) that brought me to Mary Oliver. 

 

By the time I was in college, I was a full-blown long-haired flower child flashing the peace sign and though I still played some intramural basketball with my boy’s boy aggression and determination to win, I bought hook, line and sinker the notion that gentleness was preferable to brutality, that art was superior to money, that working amongst mostly women teaching young children was a worthier profession than Wall Street or boxing. I took a college class in feminism, vowed to co-participate with the chores of cooking, diapering and driving the kids to lessons when I eventually had a family and did all of those (though still fell short in the area of doctor’s appointments and such). 

 

Truth be told, when it came to teaching, I preferred (most of) the girls in my music class to the wilder energy of many (but not all) boys. There were three years when I taught both musicians P.E. and I found myself enjoying the girls’ superior focus in music class while the boys ran around randomly and then enjoyed the boys’ energy in P.E. while the girls (some but not all) stood over to the side and picked flowers. I thought it would be good for me to have a son, but when I had two daughters, I was secretly relieved. 

 

But approaching forty, I found myself working almost exclusively with women both at my school and in the world of Orff Schulwerk. My daughters had mostly girls for friends, so outnumbered 3 to 1 in my home, the ratio got larger when my kids had friends over. Like many of the men I knew, the women in our families mostly determined the social life and we found ourselves without man friends that we talk with forthrightly beyond sports scores or the latest cool gizmo we got.

 

So when the Men’s Movement came along in the late 1980’s, I was ready to consider that there are forms of masculinity that are not toxic, but can be converted to a life-giving tonic. That my boy’s boy energy that I put in some box in the basement could come out in a different form and use its strength, aggression, desire to win, in service of life. That the archetypes of King, Warrior, Magician and Lover all had their place in the ecology of manhood and need not be shamed, but more consciously embraced in their most positive forms.

 

And why am I talking about all this at this moment? I believe it has been sparked by the week I spent with my grandson Malik, the last day just the two of us. I instantly fell in love with Zadie, my granddaughter and still feel a deep soul connection. But it has taken me a bit longer with Malik and I’m sure some of it has to do with my push-pull lifetime confusion mixed with occasional clarity about what it means to be male. It’s a good sign that I found so many ways to connect with him on so many points along the archetypal masculine-feminine spectrum and though I didn’t have a son, I’m supremely grateful for the opportunity to cultivate this beautiful relationship. I have more to say in his praise in the next post, but just wanted to feel what it would be like to tell my story in all its work-in-progress character.

 

Meanwhile, I hope to continue to snip my way through the threaded lies of brutal men, to learn to move as slowly as a snail savoring this life and to wag my puppy-dog tail with unabashed delight every time I see my grandson. 

 

 

The Grandparent Verb

The daily news’ motto: If it bleeds, it leads. Along with the TV detective series telling the stories of abused children growing up to be abusers, our failures as a species to raise happy children grown to functional, kind and compassionate adults dominates our storied landscape. I understand that since TV’s mandate is to attract viewers and newspapers to attract readers in order to survive economically, they need to hit us in the brain stem, where flight, fright or freeze overrides all other systems of thought and feeling, they need to lower us down to the chakras at the base of the spine dealing with survival, sex and power. I understand that. And get hooked into it myself with some of my viewing and reading habits (but thank goodness, not all). 

 

But back in the real world, my life has been spent observing and thinking about what makes children happy and figuring out how to give it to them. I’m not talking about giving them everything they think they want (like daily ice cream!), but taking seriously what they deeply need. Things that both meet them where they are and lead them to where they might be. Things that are worthy of their attention, that help cultivate both skills and attitudes that will serve them their whole life, that uplift them, that hit their “intellectual, imaginative and humanitarian promise:” as spoken in our school’s Mission Statement. 

 

As an adult in the relationship, I need to happily level down to their world of fantasy and play while lifting them up to a culture beyond the pop fashion, the old warhorses of civilization made forever new by each generation (note Greek myths, nursery rhymes and  The Music Man below). It’s a delightful game of ping-pong, me sharing the classics and them sharing the latest. But as the adult in the relationship, be it as a teacher or grandfather, I get to serve first. 

 

This the thinking behind another glorious week with a grandchild, this time 7-year-old Malik come to San Francisco by himself (see tomorrow’s post) two weeks after his sister Zadie had spent time with us. If I lived on a farm, I’d have both of them just follow me around in my daily chores and not necessarily make a special schedule of activities. But being retired teacher city-dwellers, both my wife and I begin the visit before the visit making a list of things we think they would enjoy that we’d like to share with them. Some— like going to a museum or sitting for an hour while I play piano at the Home for the Aged or watching an old musical— they never would have chosen for themselves, but in every case, ended up liking it— and in some cases, loving it. We look at what’s happening around town (the circus), consider the meals, make a list of possible videos (not every night) and bring up some of the books and board games from the basement. 

 

Garrison Keillor famously celebrated growing up in the 50’s when parenting was not a verb and I get what he means. My childhood also was mostly “get out of the house and play” with no adults in sight and we kids were more than happy to do so. Today’s parents are helicoptered around their kids taking them from this adult-organized sports team or lessons or class to that and the kids are squeezed in the middle by too much verb and not enough noun. But there is a middle ground that gives space for kids to just play on their own and thoughtfully considers what might both delight and uplift them. In our house, grand-parenting is very much a verb, not a casual title we take lightly.

 

The bottom line is that it works. The grandkids are so happy to be with us and we are so happy to be with them. That’s the beginning, middle and end of the whole deal. Our version of the verb is not transferrable— our lifetimes as art and music teachers prepares us for a unique way to be with kids. But perhaps the list below summarizing the kind of things we did in Malik’s recent visit might serve as an outline for grandparents considering how to spend time with their offspring’s offspring. If so, enjoy! Malik certainly did!

 

• Sit-down home-cooked meals and two special restaurants/ helping cook waffles and pancakes

• Walking or biking every day in fresh air/

• Reading books— Greek myths/ Nursery rhymes/ children’s books

• Cards/ board games— Go-fish, Trash, War, Othello, Sorry

• Videos— Mix of classics and contemporary: Peter Pan, Honey I Shrunk the Kids, The Music Man, The Emperor’s New Groove, Lightyear (in the movie theater)

• Playgrounds

• Museums (De Young/ Legion of Honor)

• Art projects— drawing postcards/cards/ sewing a stuffy

• Music— xylophone jam, memorizing Hello Muddah Hello Faddah, listening to me play piano at Jewish Home, listen to jazz band in the park

• Shows— Circus Bella

• Special SF tourist events: Cable Car/ GoCar/ Japanese Tea Garden/ Conservatory of Flowers

• Sports—Frisbee golf,  basketball, watching highlights of the Warriors / Celtics NBA Championship playoffs 

• Free play— legos/ action figures/throwing sticks in the park

 

And of course, ice cream!

 

 

 

Odyssey Rap: Part I

 In 2005, my wife, daughter and her then boyfriend to a trip to some Grecian Isles. Since neither in the younger generation had ever read Homer’s Odyssey, I decided I would read a chapter each night at dinner from a book I brought. After a few pages, the yawns and rolled eyes made it clear: “That ain’t gonna happen.” Not to be dissuaded, I decided to re-tell the story as a rap and so each night, wrote a different episode and recited it the next day. It generated an inch more interest and I carried on to the end, seventeen pages later. 

 

There it lay fallow for many years until the 8^th grade teacher at my school told me she was having the kids read a book version. And so she invited me to share my rap and I had brief fame amongst the 8^th graders as Dougie Fresh. 

 

For anyone actual fluent in the genre, my end of the line rhymes and septameter (I think) rhythm doesn’t do justice to the art form, but still I had fun writing it and a few contemporary references (“classes in Pilates,” Hello, Dolly, “Hit the Road, Jack” and more) helped liven things up a bit and attract the attention of the next generation.

 

So buckle your seat belt and either climb aboard for the trip or decline it (but do come back to my Blog!), but I suggest giving it a try, either as a review or a preview. Enjoy!

 

ODYSESSY RAP

© 2005 Doug Goodkin

 

There was a man, Odysseus, of legendary fame,

An ancient Grecian soldier, from Ithaca he came.

The hero of the Odyssey, that old Homeric lore,

Who fought for ten long years in the bloody Trojan war.

(You can read it in the Iliad, another Homer poem)

But now the war was over and he set to sail back home.

 

CHORUS: 

Don’t dis the ‘Dys,’ he did what he could,

To sail his men home safely and get back to his hood.

He used his wits and courage, he acted like a man,

But Fate stepped in, to his chagrin, the gods had others plans.

 

He gathered up the ships and crew and sailed the stormy seas

They came ashore an island with fog curling through the trees.

They killed some goats for dinner and ate tasty lamb chops

And found that they were in the land of the one-eyed Cyclops.

 

Odysseus took a dozen men with gifts for their strange hosts,

And waited in a cave to offer cheese and toast.

One Cyclops returned, a giant ugly beast

Odysseus offered him the food, but the dude refused the feast.

“I ain’t no vegetarian, I like to eat men,”

And closed the stone door to his cave to keep them in his pen.

He snatched up two and ate them whole, the air rang with their cries,

“What to do?” thought Odi, for this was a rude surprise.

 

The giant went to sleep and filled the cave with thunderous snores,

When he woke up in the morning, he ate a couple more.

Then left the cave to tend his sheep while Odi thought and thought

How to escape before two more of his men were caught.

He saw a branch the Cyclops used as a giant walking stick

And sharpened the tip to a point, said “That should do the trick.”

 

When the one-eyed beast came back home, Odi gave him wine,

The Cyclops took a sip and said, “Well, this is mighty fine.”

He drank it all and said, “Now tell to me your name.

Mine is Polyphemus, a giant of great fame.

If you tell me yours, I’ll give a gift to thee.”

“My name is rather interesting, I am Nobody.”

“Nobody’s a strange name, I’ve not heard it in the past,

But here’s the gift I promised—I will eat you last!”

 

With that the giant turned to sleep and Odi called his men

To pick up the sharp staff, like a giant fountain pen.

They drove the stick with all their might into the Cyclop’s eye

He awoke in pain and screamed a terrible awful cry.

His neighbors ran straight to his door and asked what was the matter.

“Nobody has blinded me!” Poly raved and chattered.

“Don’t bother us!” the neighbors said, “If Nobody has done this.”

And went away, fooled by that clever Odysseus.

 

But still trapped in that cave, Odi had another plan,

To grab the fleece of the sheep’s belly, each and every man,

The Cyclops could not feel them when the sheep walked out the door

And so they got back to their ships and set to sail once more.

Before he left, the ‘Dys called out, in anger and in pride,

“If someone asks who stabbed your eye to avenge my men that died,

Tell him it was Odysseus and his gallant hearty men.

Don’t you ever mess with me no more or I’ll do it all again!”

Polyphemus told his Daddy, the big God of the Sea,

And that spelt trouble for our hero, as we soon will see. 

 

CHORUS: 

Don’t dis the ‘Dys,’ he did what he could,

To sail his men home safely and get back to his hood.

He used his wits and courage, he acted like a man,

But Fate stepped in, to his chagrin, the gods had others plans. 

Odyssey Rap: Part II

They sailed on to Aelious land, the Guardian of the Winds,

And ate and drank and feasted ‘till the wine ran down their chins.

Aelious gave a leather bag, inside the winds of four

And bade farewell to Odi as he saw him to the door.

Stirred up a gentle breeze to set them on their way.

 

The ship drew near to Ithaca at the close of day.

Odyseuss was exhausted and lay down for the night

Fell into a deep sleep just as his island came in sight.

The greedy crew kept eyeing that mysterious leather pouch,

Lying next to Odi who lay sleeping on the couch.

“It must be gold,” said one of them, “Let’s peek and take a look.”

 

As soon as it was opened, the whole ship shook and shook.

The winds escaped and blew the boat back to where it had begun.

Aelious would not help again, there was nothing to be done.

But row and row and row until they came to the next land.

And send some men out to explore while the rest worked on their tan.

 

CHORUS: 

Don’t dis the ‘Dys,’ he did what he could,

To sail his men home safely and get back to his hood.

He used his wits and courage, he acted like a man,

But Fate stepped in, to his chagrin, the gods had others plans.

 

They found a witch named Circe, who was looking rather fine.

She gave them all some food, then dropped a potion in their wine.

The men got up to go after having drunk and dined,

And realized that this bitchy witch had turned them into swine.

 

When the men failed to return, Odi went to check it out.

He passed a pig who greeted him and touched him on his snout.

“That’s your man,” said Hermes, who dropped by to intervene.

“Dude, watch out for Circe, that woman’s really mean.

Take this plant and eat it, then follow with a fig.

So when you drink, her potion won’t turn you into a pig.”

 

So Circe tried her magic, but saw it didn’t work.

“Are you from some far planet, like Spock or Captain Kirk?”

“You are messin’ with the wrong man, you saucy little missy.

I’m a big bad warrior and my name it Odyssey.”

“Well, hey big boy,” said Circe, “want to come up to my bed?”

“Only if you promise that tomorrow I won’t be dead.

And one more thing,” said Odi, as he ate a few more figs.

I can’t have fun while all my men are lyin’ around as pigs.”

“First thing tomorrow, I’ll release them from my spell.

And you all can stay here, I swear I’ll treat you well.”

 

And so it came to pass, they hung out and drank beer,

And ate and slept and chilled there for almost a whole year.

But then they all got restless and longed for their own bed.

Circe said that they could go, but first visit the dead.

“In the land of Hades, across the river Styx

To speak with blind Teresias, I promise no more tricks.”

 

So Odi went to fetch his crew who were stretching out their bodies.

“No more time for wine and song and classes in Pilates.

Circe has been good to us, but now that we’re all well.

We’re gonna take a little trip straight to the bowels of Hell.”

 

CHORUS: 

Don’t dis the ‘Dys,’ he did what he could,

To sail his men home safely and get back to his hood.

He used his wits and courage, he acted like a man,

But Fate stepped in, to his chagrin, the gods had others plans.

Odyssey Rap: Part III

He sent one to get some money, and one to gather honey,

Shook another out of sleep and made him kill two sheep.

Another dressed in silk had to go and get some milk.

A special job for Charley was to go and fetch some barley.

 

They offered these libations to the right and proper gods.

And up rose all the souls who had departed from their bods.

He saw his dear old mother, who had died while he was gone.

We saw some fellow soldiers , even Agamennenon.

But he could not speak a word to them ‘till Tiresias rose up

And drank the blood from those two sheep in his favorite golden cup.

 

He then sat down with Odi and they had a little chat.

Tiri telling Odi just exactly where it’s at.

“I’m sad to say, you’re on your way, but you can’t be low ridin’

Cruising down the waterway where lives the god Poseidon.

‘Cause you did something bad, you really made him mad,

You stuck a stick in his son’s eye, who then called up his Dad.”

‘Yo Dad’, the Cyclops bellowed, ‘Odysseus is your man.

Make his trip back home a bust and kill him if you can. ‘

 

“Now I’m a major prophet, you know I’m might wise.

If you wanta get home again, heed all of my advice.

The suitors will be in your house, drinking up your wine.

Whistling at your wife and shouting, ‘Damn! That woman’s fine!’

‘Yo, Pen,’ says one, ‘you’re lookin’ tired, what say we take a nap.’

“No way, ‘Pen, that dude’s ugly, Come sit here on my lap.’

“They’ll be eatin’ up your food, saying things so rude,

Making’ fun of your son, callin’ him a weak-assed dude.

So what you gotta do, I’ll whisper in your ear.

So those listenin’ to this tale can’t possibly hear.

 

CHORUS: 

Don’t dis the ‘Dys,’ he did what he could,

To sail his men home safely and get back to his hood.

He used his wits and courage, he acted like a man,

But Fate stepped in, to his chagrin, the gods had others plans.

 

Odysseus listened carefully, then bid farewell to Hades.

Went on back to Circe, where she warned him about some ladies.

Who’ll sing to him when they sail by with a song that’s so entrancin’

That he and all the crew can’t stop themselves from dancin’

And while they’re listenin’ in a trance to those melodic riffs,

They’ll lose control of all the ships and crash into the cliffs.

The Sirens will all stop and laugh and eat ambrosic foods

“Serves you right, you stupid men, we hate you gnarly dudes!”

 

So Odi called a meeting, gathered each and every man,

“We can get by the Sirens if you’ll listen to my plan.

I e-mailed my advisors and just got back this fax

The thing to do is sail on by with our ears stuffed with wax.

But if one man would like to hear what makes their singing cool

And causes all who hear them to whimper, pant and drool,

Then there’s one trick you can do that has worked well in the past.

Tie your fearless leader securely to the mast.

No matter how he begs and pleads for you to come untie him.

You must say no, no can do and stubbornly defy him.”

 

So when they reached the Sirens, they carried out their plan

Sailed right by with wax-filled ears, except for that one man

Tied to the mast, who screamed, “Let me go right now!

Or I’ll take you back to Circe and turn you into cows.”

For the singing drove him wild, with those tones so pure and sweet

(Though he thought they could sound better with a good hip-hop backbeat).

But the men just looked at him and said, “Dude, we cannot hear you!

And we’re just following orders, so we ain’t gonna fear you.”

 

And so the ships sailed calmly by, lined up two by twos,

The Sirens looking puzzled and openly confused.

“What’s happening to us, sisters? Have we lost our touch?

Those guys just sailed on by like they didn’t like us very much.”

“Our songs are too sweet,” said one, “like syrup or like sap.

The times they are a-changin’, we gotta learn to rap!”

 

CHORUS: 

Don’t dis the ‘Dys,’ he did what he could,

To sail his men home safely and get back to his hood.

He used his wits and courage, he acted like a man,

But Fate stepped in, to his chagrin, the gods had others plans.