==========☕🎩🍰========== Made for #Tomfoolery. Check the link for more details. https://suno.com/playlist/ee4f5b81-7a98-41c1-874c-a0981b9af536 ==========☕🎩🍰========== [Intro] To my most persistent, if increasingly impatient, correspondent— Badfather, self-appointed steward of a Season he did not invent— Your latest missive has been received, unsealed, and thoroughly amused. Sixty-seven days of silence, you say? My dear fellow, that was not neglect. That was digestion. [Chorus] Oh, the Season never left—it merely waited for better company. ’Tis still MY Season! ’Tis still MY Season! You counted the days; I counted the silver. Do not mistake forbearance for forfeiture— ’Tis still MY Season! ’Tis still MY Season! [Verse 1] You speak of lapsed correspondence and drowned pigeons. How touching. While you fretted over the post, I was occupied with more pressing matters: re-cataloguing the drawing-room, re-waxing the moustaches of the staff, and deciding which of your previous bars deserved to be framed and which merely filed under “enthusiastic preliminary remarks.” You interpret silence as applause. Charming legal fiction. The fine-print clause you cite was written by me, in my own hand, on paper older than your entire catalogue of curiosities. Silence, in this house, is never surrender. It is merely the pause a gentleman takes before deciding whether the company is still worth the brandy. [Chorus] Oh, the Season never left—it merely waited for better company. ’Tis still MY Season! ’Tis still MY Season! You counted the days; I counted the silver. Do not mistake forbearance for forfeiture— ’Tis still MY Season! ’Tis still MY Season! [Verse 2] You threaten a “second party somewhat less refined.” How deliciously theatrical. I keep several such parties on retainer— all of them exquisitely polite, all of them permanently unemployed because no one has yet required their services. You claim to have purchased the pigeons and privatised the post. Admirable enterprise. I own the sky they fly through, the grain they eat, and the very notion of correspondence. Your foreclosure upon the meter is noted… and politely declined. The furniture remains where I left it. The weather answers to no one, but it does tend to favour those who dress appropriately. [Bridge] You style yourself Badfather. How unfortunate. In this house the proper title has always been Good father— and, when the occasion truly demands it, Godfather of Tomfoolery. I permitted the Season to continue precisely so that gentlemen of negotiable character might still have somewhere to practise their scales. That courtesy is now under review. Sixty-seven days was not absence. It was an interval— long enough for the room to remember who never needed to raise his voice to be heard. [Final Chorus] Oh, the Season never left—and it will not leave with you. ’Tis still MY Season! ’Tis still MY Season! Close whatever doors you like. I have the keys, the hinges, and the architect. Tomfoolery was never up for sale— ’Tis still MY Season! ’Tis still MY Season! [Outro] Keep your velvet glove. Keep your sabre. Keep your embossed compliments. Keep the “Bad.” I remain, as ever, the Good father— and, when required, the Godfather of Tomfoolery— the gentleman who did not need to send a second party, because the first one was already more than sufficient. Yours, with undiminished civility and the same absolute ownership of the premises, Ojac (Still wearing the hat. Still not required to doff it.)
