About the Collection

I love music. I’ve sung in choirs for practically my whole life. It’s no surprise that I took to filking like a duck to water—I’ve written a ton of holiday filks, which you can find over in the PPC Holiday Songbook. This page is for everything both musical and PPC-related I’ve done in months other than December.

Most of what you’ll find here was written by me. Some of it is even *gasp* completely original! If a thing isn’t mine, credit will be given where it is due.

An Anthem for Fireworks
Tune:“The Star-Spangled Banner” by Francis Scott Key and John Stafford Smith
Published:July 4, 2008

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
Sues so proudly impaled at the twilight’s last gleaming?
Whose hair-stripes and eye-stars, through the perilous fight,
O’er the plotholes we watched were so luridly streaming!
And the agents down there, curses bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that HQ was still there!
Oh, say, does that blood-spattered halberd yet wave
O’er the urple and the twee, and the writing depraved?

The Fangirl Song
Tune:Who Were the Witches?” / “The Witch Song” by Bonnie Lockhart
Published:January 31, 2005
Note:The second link is most similar to the Roger Tincknell version of this song I listened to on cassette tape as a kid. Alas, that doesn't seem to have made its way to YouTube.

Who were the fangirls? Where did they come from?
Maybe your sister’s bestest friend was one
Fangirls are dumb, dumb children, they say
But there’s a little fan in every woman today

Fangirls weren’t all about getting a squeeze
Glomping their lust objects and making them wheeze
When characters seemed to be lost in a haze
Fangirls came to the rescue—in so many ways


Authors wrote stories and fangirls were there
To seek out the good ones and give them sweet care
And fangirls knew all about how they began
Do you wish you could help them? Well, maybe you can!


Some people think all the fangirls are bad
Some people are scared of the mania they have
The desire to love and to give and to care
It’s not something to fear—it’s a treasure to share


There’s a little fan
There’s a little fan
There’s a little fan in every woman today!

How Many Houses Are In Hogwarts?
Tune:How Many Colors Are In the Rainbow?” by Hy Zaret and Lou Singer
Published:November 6, 2013

In-universe, this is used as a teaching song by the PPC Nursery.

How many houses are in Hogwarts?
How many houses are in Hogwarts?
How many houses are in Hogwarts?
Count them and you'll see!


Red and yellow and blue and green!
Red and yellow and blue and green!
Red and yellow and blue and green!
Four houses can be seen!

Now, the four houses of Hogwarts are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. They each have a house color: red, yellow, blue, and green. So when you think of the houses of Hogwarts, remember the four colors: red, yellow, blue, and green!

How many houses are in Hogwarts? (3x)
Count them and you'll see!


Red and yellow and blue and green! (3x)
Four houses can be seen!

“Mary Sue: The Musical” Lyrics
Lyrics:Holly Toadstool
Music:Holly Toadstool
Published:c. 2005?
Hear it:Performed by Holly Toadstool!

IMPORTANT - This does not belong to me!

Please understand that I had no part in what you are about to experience. “Mary Sue: The Musical” is the work of Holly Toadstool, who was partly inspired by GMonkey’s Sparklypoo comic. All I’m doing here is presenting the lyrics as I hear them for general posterity. I love the comic and the song. So you can have as much fun with them as I, please do the following before you read:

Exchange student, that is moi
I come from America
I am Harry’s long-lost twin
I got the same scar as him.
Draco is my lover
As well as many others
Professor Snape adores me
I take early morning tea.

What can you do, Mary Sue?
I’m Mary Sue in Sparklypoo
My stories rule, says you
I am so cool; please sing on cue:
My pupils are a bit dilated
I am underestimated
You all know that I’m so good
And I’m just misunderstood.

She’s never gonna shut up
Her stories are just real crap
She keeps saying she’s on top
Jesus Christ, just make her stop.

Trelawney could clearly see
There are hidden powers in me
Voldemort wants me on his side
When Ron sees me, he’ll try to hide.
Hermione is my bestest friend
When I have a note to send
I use Snowflake—that’s my pet
Silken sheets are on my bed.


My godfather, Sirius
Is a bit delirious
I have an animagi form
As a flying unicorn.
How I love the color pink
I have an expensive shrink
Some kids think that I’m a dork
Oh my God, is that a spork?!


Musical tap-dancing interlude

My pupils are a bit dilated
I am underestimated
You all know that I’m so good
And I’m just misunderstood.

She’s never gonna shut up
Her stories are just real crap
She keeps saying she’s on top
Jesus Christ, just make her stop!

The Spires of Prospero
Published:June 1, 2019

In-universe, this is a song written by Agent Derik, a former Harper of Pern (Dragonriders of Pern continuum), as a tribute to his best friend, Agent Thoth, a Space Marine formerly of the Thousand Sons Legion (Warhammer 40,000 continuum). See “Presentation: ‘The Spires of Prospero’” for context and author’s notes.

Before the bane of heresy
in flames consumed the galaxy,
a jewel once crowned humanity:
a city proud and fair to see
upon the world of Prospero.
Beyond the ruin of Old Night,
no more to fear psychneuein’s bite,
arose from Tizca, bathed in light,
the silver Spires of Prospero.

Magnificent acropoli,
their mirrored walls beheld the sky;
their marbled feet danced golden Phi;
and fruited fronds that pleased the eye
made sweet the air of Prospero.
O’er shining halls of knowledge stored,
there many-colored banners soared;
and silver prides of lions roared
to greet the Spires of Prospero.

And deep within their sky-clad towers,
nurturing ethereal flowers
thought-borne, by the countless hours
growing their Empyrean powers,
dwelled the Sons of Prospero:
Once broken, flesh-wracked, lost, debased—
now found, with time and purpose graced,
when Magnus, Crimson King, embraced
his Thousand Sons on Prospero.

A bare one thousand souls withstood
their trial of flesh, and neither good
intent nor wisdom, though they would,
could save more of their brotherhood;
the strong survived to Prospero.
And Magnus taught those who remained
his knowledge occult and arcane:
five schools had each to their domain
a gilded Spire of Prospero.

Athanaeans with auras bright
discerned men’s secret thoughts aright,
while Corvidae on wings of light
did pierce the veil with future-sight
to guide the Sons of Prospero;
blood-cunning proud Pavoni learned,
Raptora stalwart kine-shields turned,
and Pyrae’s flame eternal burned
above the Spires of Prospero.

Though coming late to join the fight
to claim the stars and reunite
mankind, fragmented by Old Night,
a path of glory blazed the bright
and shining Sons of Prospero.
The path of bloodshed never sought
their fellowships all nine, but wrought
assent with guile, and knowledge brought
to fill the Spires of Prospero.

From sciences and gramaries
to arts and ancient histories,
the learning of the centuries,
passed down through their academies,
revered the Sons of Prospero.
With theaters to battle in
and fountain squares to revel in,
their vim and verve were mirrored in
the gleaming Spires of Prospero.

And yet for all their learned arts,
for all their proud and martial hearts
beat true, steadfast in all their parts,
cruel treachery with poison darts
laid low the Sons of Prospero.
The loyal Sons were thrice betrayed;
the Ocean’s tides of fate arrayed
against them crashed in red cascade
to stain the Spires of Prospero.

Provoked by cries of fear and hate
for Warp-born powers profligate,
the Emperor proclaimed a great
conclave upon the psykers’ fate
and on the Sons of Prospero,
though Mankind’s Master long had known
how gifted Magnus’ sons had grown
and joyfully the aether flown
beyond the Spires of Prospero.

’Neath pyroclastic clouds begrayed,
on volatile Nikaea bayed
the brutish Wolves, and Guards inveighed
against their brothers; thus waylaid
were Magnus’ Sons of Prospero,
who, true to faithless summons, came,
and bore the burden of the name
of “sorcerer” in wretched shame
home to the Spires of Prospero.

But Magnus, future-touched, had seen
a vision horrid and obscene:
his brother, Horus, and the keen
witch-blade imbued with craft unclean,
like nothing known on Prospero,
that laid him low. If he should fall,
the Warmaster would plunge them all
into the flames; so Magnus called
his best to him on Prospero.

Within a cave of crystal hewn,
one thousand thralls as one communed
to grant their life-lights as a boon
to speed their master’s flight, attuned
by five Adepts of Prospero.
For Horus’ soul and Magnus’ pride,
one thousand faithful servants died
and five Adepts were sorely tried
beneath the Spires of Prospero.

With the strength their souls imbued,
the Crimson King in spirit flew
to save his brother, wise and true;
his vigil stood the closest few
deep in the heart of Prospero.
The days drew on: suns three by three
passed Tizca by, where none could see;
nine days it rained, and filled with glee,
the people danced on Prospero.

Alas that Magnus came too late:
the Warmaster was bound by fate
to fall beyond th’ Empyrean’s gate
and Magnus, shattered, came back straight
to tell his Sons of Prospero.
No time for Horus to be mourned;
the Emperor could still be warned
by those same arts he lately scorned,
taught in the Spires of Prospero.

So forth again the Mage set out:
by ancient ways that wound about
the aether, Magnus made his route
perforce, and heeded not the doubt
that plagued his Sons of Prospero,
who guessed their sire would not receive
the grateful welcome and reprieve
he sought; for who would now believe
news from the Spires of Prospero?

But Magnus, in his arrogance
refused to see himself askance
and boldly, blindly, as a lance
of fire, he crossed the great expanse
and doomed the Sons of Prospero;
for finding his way blocked, but shown
a power greater than he’d known,
he pierced through to the Golden Throne
of Terra, far from Prospero.

The Emperor beheld him then:
a searing form beyond the ken
or reckoning of mortal men.
In tow’ring wrath he flew again
against his Son of Prospero,
for Magnus, in his ignorance,
had shattered Terra’s great defense
against the Warp; in shame he hence
retreated home to Prospero.

And none he told what he had done,
nor of the web of doom he’d spun
that snared them; with nowhere to run,
he turned his face from every son
who looked to him on Prospero.
Within his sanctum Magnus wept
to know how badly he’d misstepped
and in his grief he would accept
the punishment of Prospero.

For nothing now could stay the hand
of Mankind’s Master, whose command
that psychic arts be ever banned
must be upheld with no remand
for Magnus, Son of Prospero.
He set his Wolves upon the prey
they long had scented; grim and gray,
the Rout set forth without delay
across the void to Prospero.

The Mage was but to be secured
to face the justice he’d incurred,
but at the fallen Horus’ word,
cruel death was sanctioned and assured
for every Son of Prospero.
Their father knew their death drew nigh,
but drew a veil across their eye
and stood their guardians idly by
upon the walls of Prospero.

So when the axe in darkness fell,
the sudden, furious fires of hell
upon the lucid kine-shield shell
spun over Tizca made the knell
that woke the Sons of Prospero.
The ships of Fenris in the void
had all their arsenal deployed—
and yet their wrath had not destroyed
the soaring Spires of Prospero.

The brave Raptora would defy
their guns unto the last, and buy
the people time to fight or fly.
They forced the Wolves down from on high
to face the Sons of Prospero,
who, though their father wished no fight,
would not go gentle into night.
If die they must, they’d die upright
before the Spires of Prospero.

In the pale, gray light of dawn,
their crimson battle-lines were drawn.
Down from the north the foe came on
across the sea to fall upon
the noble Sons of Prospero.
With shields of force and aether blasts,
their lines, though silken-thin, held fast
while scholars saved the wisdom ’massed
within the Spires of Prospero.

They’d fought the Wolves to failure’s brink
when Warp-sight fled them in a blink;
their strength was too their armor’s chink,
and psychic silence spread like ink
to drown the Sons of Prospero.
The Silent Sisters joined the fray
with golden masks in fierce display;
the Sons fell back in disarray
before the sack of Prospero.

Now, men of any lesser breed,
struck down and cast aside to bleed
with no remorse, might have with speed
gone on their knees to beg and plead,
but not the Sons of Prospero.
They rose again, themselves outdid,
to strike the Sisters where they hid
in aether-nulls, and held amid
the blackened Spires of Prospero.

In all their glorious powers arrayed,
the Sons regrouped once more and made
a final stand in Photep’s shade.
There thrice and finally were betrayed
the stricken Sons of Prospero.
Not gone, but sleeping was the blight
upon their flesh; with evil spite
their curse awoke, and cries of fright
beshook the Spires of Prospero.

The aether gorged them to surfeit:
its poison fangs their bellies bit;
its twisting claws their flesh unknit;
it boiled their blood, and flaming lit
the ravaged souls of Prospero.
Their foes, who saw the Sons laid low
and greatly scorned them in their woe,
prepared to strike the final blow
to break the Spires of Prospero.

Now Magnus, gazing from on high,
no more could watch his children die.
His vengeful lightning split the sky
and all beheld his blazing eye:
the Red Cyclops of Prospero.
Wreathed in flames of crimson-gold,
he smote the Wolves with powers untold—
and all his Legion’s souls he sold
to save the Spires of Prospero.

This bargain struck, the doom was sealed.
Across the cosmos, whirling, reeled
the shards of Tizca, flung afield
with all who held to Photep’s shield:
One Thousand Sons of Prospero.
A bare one thousand souls, bereft
of pride and honor, knew the theft
that stole their lives, and only left
the twisted Spires of Prospero.

Their blackened sides cringed from a dome
becrazed with fires that seared the gloam
of night that cloaked their Warp-cursed home
in Terror’s Eye, where now would roam
the empty Sons of Prospero.
The wisdom they had held in trust
was lost, their great works fell to rust,
and all that now remains is dust
where shone the Spires of Prospero.

The Summer Wind
Music:Gail Gallagher
Published:January 6, 2018
Hear it:Performed by Neshomeh (vocals) and Gail (piano)!

If you click the video link, please accept my apologies for the poor video quality and my nervous rushing of the tempo at the beginning. So embarrassing. >.>;

In-universe, this was written by Agent Derik for his partner (in both senses), Agent Gall. For more information, recordings, and sheet music, see my deviantART.

Discind” is not a typo; it’s your vocabulary word for the day. {= D

My love is a storm on a red summer eve,
a wind that wakes
the weary boughs of drowsing trees,
and shakes
their heavy heads of last year’s leaves.

I am a ship on a gray winter sea,
no home or tide
to steer my course or carry me;
I bide
until my love shall set me free.

So come on and blow, you wild summer wind,
come raise a gale
and I’ll raise my sail.
No rock will it stay, nor reef will it hinder me now.
Though I break apart
I won’t lose my heart
and naught me from my love will discind.

My love is a tempest to stir the cold seas,
that swells the waves
to caps of foam with careless ease
and saves
my heart from winter’s deathly freeze.

I’ll rise to that current; though I cannot soar
upon the swell,
I’ll chase the wind that I adore
and dwell
at last in peace on summer’s shore.

So come on and blow, you wild summer wind,
come raise a gale
and I’ll raise my sail.
No rock will it stay, nor reef will it hinder me now.
Though I break apart
I won’t lose my heart
and naught me from my love will discind.

This website is © Neshomeh since 2004. This page’s content was last updated 06.17.2020.
The PPC belongs to Jay and Acacia and is used with permission.