Swat
07-24-2007, 01:48 PM
For my English Literature class, we were given the option of parodying Raleigh's 'Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd' or Marlowe's 'Shepherd to His Love'. I of course chose to Parody Raleigh, granted it's not a parody in the sense that it follows the same rhyme scheme, or pattern, but more the same idea. ;) I'd just like to say now, this isn't meant to insult anyone (especially men) let's just say I had a reputation in the class and it made sense to keep it up with the poem!
Although your offer is quite sweet
There are some rules I tried to beat
Into your skull, you never learned.
Now I feel like I’ve been burned.
Wait my dear, I have to say,
I saw you just the other day,
Across the road with another gal
With tarty clothes and saucy curls.
Furious, I could hardly see,
Cunning I would have to be.
With haste I raced back to your flat,
You’d better not want your deposit back.
Yes, I meant to slash that chair,
And hide the remote, you don’t know where.
Nail polish is that carpet stain,
This is just the start of all your pain.
I hope you don’t think me brash,
But I hope you get an infectious rash.
Like gonorrhoea or syphilis,
From that tarty girl you kissed.
I’m not bitter, no not I,
I do not wish you to die.
I’d just like to dance upon your grave,
For all the ways you’ve misbehaved.
Upon your crown I’ll swing once more,
A solid plank of two-by-four.
So, my dear, our love must halt,
I’m off to join a feminist cult.
Although your offer is quite sweet
There are some rules I tried to beat
Into your skull, you never learned.
Now I feel like I’ve been burned.
Wait my dear, I have to say,
I saw you just the other day,
Across the road with another gal
With tarty clothes and saucy curls.
Furious, I could hardly see,
Cunning I would have to be.
With haste I raced back to your flat,
You’d better not want your deposit back.
Yes, I meant to slash that chair,
And hide the remote, you don’t know where.
Nail polish is that carpet stain,
This is just the start of all your pain.
I hope you don’t think me brash,
But I hope you get an infectious rash.
Like gonorrhoea or syphilis,
From that tarty girl you kissed.
I’m not bitter, no not I,
I do not wish you to die.
I’d just like to dance upon your grave,
For all the ways you’ve misbehaved.
Upon your crown I’ll swing once more,
A solid plank of two-by-four.
So, my dear, our love must halt,
I’m off to join a feminist cult.