MAKING YOUNG GIRLS CRY
I write the songs that make the whole world sing. I write the songs of love and special things. I write the songs that make the young girls cry. I write the songs. I write the songs. I was at the Copa, Copacabana. Mandy had gone. She came and she gave without taking but I sent her away, oh, Mandy! Anyway, I was at the Copa, Copacabana ready to do another set. The stage lights were hot. I was sweating. The audience was large and raucous. I had my regular band mates behind me, like Smokey Jones on bass, Fozzie Greensteen on drums, and Ralph on keyboards. I could have played keyboards and sang, too, but I'm old, truth of it and, honestly, Ralph is a damn good keyboard player. Ralph can churn out all sorts of tunes from those fast fingers of his - jazz, waltz, whatever, it makes no difference. People were filtering in as my bandmates did a set all their own, little jazzy upbeat numbers. I told them to play upbeat tunes because that's what my music is all about - making people happy, making young girls cry. We had gotten to the Copa, Copacabana by way of Philadelphia by way of D.C. by way of Boston by way of Hartford by way by way by way. We always tour and now that winter's setting upon us, I'm getting flat tired. But here I am, sucking a honey throat lozenge to soothe by already wracked voice box, ready to get the place jiving again. Get them on their feet. Get them dancing to my new remix. Lola, the show girl, holds up her hand. Five minutes until I get on stage. I'm too old for this, I thought as I scratched by back against the door frame to the green room hearing my introduction on stage. Too old and too tired. And yet when I step out on that stage, I shine, shine like the sun over old Havana, and I sing, oh, Mandy do I sing, sing the songs of love and special things. There's two fraternity brothers in the front row. They give me a thumbs down. They boo. They heckle me and laugh at the beautiful music I make. They jeer and shout over my rich luxurious voice. Then I charge at them and bite off their arms. That's what I do, for I am Beary Manilow.