Tis My Season

🎩🧐 #Tomfoolery 🎩🧐 Get your mustache properly primped. The very fancy white glove have been thrown. Will you keep a stiff upper lip… or return fire with fine proper diction? XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX Step 1: Drop Your Retort Remix, mash-up, or other craft your own civil savagery. Bring your best bars beau monde to the chap-hop scene. Go sharp and show these old chums that the water’s not too hot. XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX Step 2: Dress for the Duel Create cover art that feels like a Victorian vanity project gone wild. If your pinky is up high and your posture is perfect, you’re doing it right. XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX Step 3: Hijack the House of Lords Tag your creation with #Tomfoolery You can add this to your lyrics section: ==========☕🎩🍰========== Made for #Tomfoolery. Check the link for more details. https://suno.com/playlist/ee4f5b81-7a98-41c1-874c-a0981b9af536 ==========☕🎩🍰========== XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX Step 4: Mind Your Manners Comment on the original track so the gents know you’ve stepped into the lobby. XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX Step 5: Mix the Biscuits Blast your fellow duelists across the playlist banquet. They will appreciate your spittle. XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX Step 6: Echo the Etiquette Paste these rules (or the short link version) into your track description so the patrician addiction keeps multiplying. XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX And that’s it. Fix your collar and pour the tea. 🎩🧐 The tomfoolery continues! XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX -------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------- [Intro] To my most exalted, if lamentably chastened, acquaintances— Lords, ladies, half-witted halfwits, and the rest of this regrettable menagerie— Your geniality has been noted and filed under “charming provincial efforts.” Your etiquette? Adorably amateurish. Your “dire observation”? Delightful rural naïveté. I endured your offering with the forbearance of a man who waited three centuries for acceptable tea. You summoned the Season. I am the Season. You opened the gates. I already own the estate, the county, and that mild inconvenience called “the rest of England.” [Chorus] Oh, we remain amongst the chaps, yet every cap has been confiscated— ’Tis MY Season! ’Tis MY Season! Pass the brass? Keep it. I own the foundry and the concept of metallurgy. Do not permit decorum to collapse— ’Tis MY Season! ’Tis MY Season! [Verse 1] I proceed from the premise that the Tomfoolery must be elevated, gilded, and employed as a blunt yet polished instrument. Badfather, dear boy, you assembled a charming cabinet of curiosities: Hirsute Undead Chickens, Phonky Frog, Lady Spark, Lady Bloom, Sir Dark1n3 and his recovered baubles, Sir DUDE and his thigh manifesto, J.J., Silver Flask, Brandy, Whiskey, A-to-Zed, Venus’s Bob, Sir Bogey, Sir Staabs, Spankie, Skunk Ape, Lux, Gumm E Pish… A fine catalogue. I shall frame it in the servants’ hall so the staff may chuckle while polishing silver you will never touch. You made heroes of halfwits. How quaint. I manufacture legends from thin air and charge them rent for existing near me. You arrived with verbal weapons drawn. I arrived with the patent, the copyright, the moral high ground, and polite butlers who will smile while rearranging your features more agreeably. [Chorus] Oh, we remain amongst the chaps, yet every cap has been confiscated— ’Tis MY Season! ’Tis MY Season! Pass the brass? Keep it. I own the foundry and the concept of metallurgy. Do not permit decorum to collapse— ’Tis MY Season! ’Tis MY Season! [Verse 2] Hirsute Undead Chickens? I shall have them stuffed above the fireplace beside the last man who tried to “herald the dross” here. He still smiles—on my taxidermist’s instructions. Phonky Frog’s follicular traps? Charming. I once convinced a regiment their moustaches had filed for divorce and were suing for custody of the upper lip. They surrendered within the hour. Lady Spark and Lady Bloom—polite as porcelain. I shall invite them to tea. Then serve them in the tea. Metaphorically, of course. (One must always enquire.) Milady Vampire held a B-flat until the dead rose. I maintained a raised eyebrow for seventeen years until a dynasty faded from the peerage out of embarrassment. Sir Dark1n3 recovered his velvet sac. Felicitations. I keep spares in seasonal colours. One does not wish to appear under-dressed at the apocalypse. Sir DUDE recommends the thigh. Filed under “rustic advice from the provinces.” I dine as I please. [Bridge] Ojac is the name you already know. You welcomed me through verbal smoke. I extinguished the smoke, kept the fire, and now warm my brandy with it while composing this billet-doux. An Orange might learn to roast from me? I taught “roast” to the idea of fire itself. The Orange audited the class and failed. Bob from Venus bruised the King’s English. I persuaded the King’s English to petition for a name change to escape lesser practitioners. Sir Bogey coined six terms a second. I mint entire dialects before breakfast and auction the rights while still in my dressing gown. [Final Chorus] Oh, we remain amongst the chaps, yet every cap has been confiscated— ’Tis MY Season! ’Tis MY Season! Pass the brass? Unnecessary. I am the brass itself. Do not permit decorum to collapse— ’Tis MY Season! ’Tis MY Season! [Outro] Bring your bars, beau monde. Bring your best offence and half-remembered names. The invitation was a summons. You answered it. The Season continues only while I find the company amusing. Pen your odes. Tag your Tomfoolery. Answer if you dare. I shall be in the library, sipping something older than your bloodlines, drafting the polite letter that informs the drawing-room the evening has concluded. Yours, with utmost civility and absolute superiority, Ojac The gentleman who retains his hat, for he never found occasion to doff it.