A collectively written cybersong is one that was created over an Internet newsgroup such as rec.music.folk. One of the best examples is THE FOLKSINGERS' BALL, found in the Digital Tradition. Here's another example.
--- Steve
--------------------THE DAYS OF '68
Tune: "The Days of '49" (traditional)
Words: Collectively written. Public Domain by mutual consent of the authors.
My name is Steve, you must believe,
From those wild and thrilling days.
They call me a hippy and a beatnik, too,
But what cares I for praise?
I go around throughtout the town,
As time keeps growing late,
And people boast, "There goes a ghost,
From the days of '68."
Chorus [repeat ad lib]:
From the days long past, they're fading fast,
The facts I will relate,
From the days long past, when we kicked ass,
Those days of '68.
There was Abbie the Clown, he was always around,
I never will forget,
He could laugh all day, he could laugh all night,
I guess he's laughing yet.
But Abbie I fear as you shall hear,
Couldn't face the morning straight,
So Abbie died a suicide,
From the days of '68.
There was H. Rap Brown, who wore a frown,
And shades upon his eyes.
Whenever he spoke, the papers wrote,
Sometimes truth and sometimes lies.
But H. Rap Brown, he did go down,
Right through the jail house gate,
And did hard time for some stupid crime,
From the days of '68.
There was young Phil O. from Ohio,
With his tousled head of hair.
Whenever we would need a song,
Phil was always there.
Until it's said his voice went dead,
And his love it turned to hate,
He ran out of hope, and grabbed the rope,
From the days of '68.
There was Timmy B. with his poetry,
Who stood upon the stage,
With voice so pure and lyrics sure,
That jumped from every page.
But Tim, of course, he rode that horse,
Which galloped to his fate,
And on that steed, poor Tim O.D.'d,
From the days of '68.
There was Janis J. from down Texas way,
I can even see her now,
And hear her croon some bluesy tune,
And watch her take a bow.
But Janis J. drank night and day,
She took her whiskey straight,
'Til her life did pass, down a high-ball glass,
From the days of '68.
There was Tricky Dick, our President,
He was elected in that year.
He could trick 'em high, he could trick 'em low,
He could trick 'em far and near.
Until the night he turned a trick,
In the halls of Watergate,
And from then on all his tricks were gone,
From the days of '68.
There was the Ph.D. named Timothy,
Who told us to drop out.
L.S.D. was his magic key,
Of that he had no doubt.
But fantasy and reality,
He could not differentiate,
'Til his dying day, still he'd play,
Like the days of '68.
There was young Tom P. in N. Y., C.
When he had a full head of hair.
He'd write about toys, and scared soldier boys,
And the family love he shared.
Now the war's long past, but with each newscast,
In song he shall translate,
Absurdity and pain, to a catchy refrain,
Like the days of '68.
There was Dr. King, the a man of peace;
Who won the Nobel Prize.
His dream could see true equality,
Too soon came his demise.
He preached that sense and non-violence,
Could overcome all hate.
But a shot was fired, and King expired,
In the days of '68.
Billy Clinton was an unknown youth,
Thriving in Oxford town.
He was a guest of Mr. Rhodes,
Wore mortar board and gown.
Although he smoked, he never inhaled,
Or so he claims of late.
"I prefer a grope, to a puff of dope,"
Says this son of '68.
Young W. was a drinking man,
In those days so long ago.
Twixt Yale and jail, and back again,
Often he would go.
Until one day he sobered up,
But if you ask him straight,
He can't recall those days at all,
Those days of '68.
Some comrades are now dead and gone,
But most are living yet.
And I look back upon those days,
Without the least regret.
I never shall apologize,
And I won't repudiate,
Those days long past, when we kicked ass,
Those days of '68.