Scots wha' hae? This is wonderful, Kiltee!
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Scots wha' hae? This is wonderful, Kiltee!
Good fir the mousie! http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...HouseMouse.gif
Great job with ALL of the previous parodies. Thanks Prince, now I have to go back and re-read some Thomas (no, really I should do it anyway.) I like Sleepy's version of the nymph+shepherd classic better than that of yours truly. The parody of R---r--r-r--obert Burns by Kilted Exile along with Pen's good-natured response both show a facility with the burrr-rr. And Fire-fangled's Wallace Stevens parody shows an expert knowledge of her (or is it "his") favorite poet. By the way, I still have a dog-eared, thirty-year old W. Stevens anthology entitled "The
Palm at the End of the Mind." Let's wave a praising palm towards all of these accomplished parodists on the LitNet!
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On First Looking Into, At, Around, and Through
“The Egotistical Sublime”
Much of his travel makes us wait around, as if for gold,
and he hangs out in realms where stars have been seen
round. Expects -– hell, requires! – - a query where he’s been,
which in turn he deletes or puts the call on hold,
oft reserving an expanse off-campus (the dad pays, I’m told)
that he keeps as his private – - you’re kidding! - – demesne.
Yet he’s all gaga and “into” some siren serene,
till he says he’s God’s image of The One who’s bold.
Then the dame has no mercy for this clod’s head in the skies.
When diss’d, he scoots to scribe – - no pencil in his ken – -
to keyboard to peck: “brids’ wont sing unless she opens her eyes!!!”
He jots facts that don’t jibe: right ocean, wrong men.
Look’d at himself as the Second Coming of Keats, a wild surmise.
Silent proof no one can stand the guy at Yale or in Darien.
Princess Idle
(w. apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan)
I'm no damned good at symmetry and versifying gimmickry.
The wrenching rhymes that I've thus wrought are often fraught with limerick-ry.
In track-wide doubt I ever can train a wretchéd line to scan,
I am the very model of a swayback poet also-ran.
I slice my bread before the wise, and the sharp advice they live to give
says even the wriest loaf is stale, très trite, if not derivative,
referring to my alluding skill as swill from a cut-and-paster-er.
I am the moldy mold of a post-modern poet-taster-er.
The Greats whom I strain to parody and flatter with temerity
I take more seriously than myself, which “I say with all sincerity.”
No tears will drip, but laughs may trip out of my rash and leaky pen.
I am a photocopy of a poet-slash-comedienne.
Jabberwocky
T’was brillig within the beamish brain,
pulsating with REM-sleep,
and one could almost hear the furious
breeding of the threshing neurons
within the convolutions of the cortical gyri,
producing by their uffish adultery
the mimsy wisps of hallucinatory vapors
that men call “Dreams.”
Beware, my son, beware,
for although most of these ethereal essences
are perfectly harmless—
some are Boojums!
Pendragon
http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...lies/Cobra.gif
This theme song is for a guy posing as a natural foods fan in order to impress women:
(To the tune of Cole Porter’s “I Get a Kick Out of You”)
I get a kick from romaine.
Chateaubriand doesn't turn me right on.
So tell me, what’s in that ragout?
For I get a kick from tofu.
I get a kick every time I see
a chicken ranging freely
although it seems to be
that obviously
no chick will dine with me.
No dates, I can't catch a break.
Might as well go and order the steak
and tell you something that’s true:
I don't really care for tofu.
The next one’s going out to a wife whose husband has a new prescription that’s working too well:
(To the tune of “Our Love is Here to Stay” by the Gershwins)
It’s very clear
your ‘love’ is here to stay.
Seems like a year
that it’s been this way.
Uh-oh, my dear
I see you've got some gumption.
But I sure could use
a little more ‘dysfunction.’
You took some cold showers,
but after four hours,
you still only want to play,
and your ‘love’ is here to stay.
And finally, here’s a post-modern conundrum – a parody of a parody for a neophyte tourist in Sin City who learns that what happens in a parody should stay in a parody:
(A variation of the parody of “The Dance of the Hours,” by the late, great Allan Sherman)
Hello Muddah, hello Faddah
Here I am out in Nevadah.
It’s exciting and amusing,
And I think I'll have some fun when I stop losing.
Tried my luck at the one-armed bandit–
Lots o’ lemons, I can't stand it!
Thought the slot was a rotten deal
Till the run-around I got from the roulette wheel.
I placed a bet, oh, Muddah, Faddah,
on blackjack yet!
I don't know what to do –
I keep hitting twenty-two!
Now I'm losing five-star pokah
and I'm going even brokah.
Hope that we don't become beggahs
Wish I'd gone away to camp instead of Vegahs!
Those are all fantastic, Auntie, and so imaginative. But if I had to pick one favorite from the bunch, it would probably be the second one - the one about dysfunction. I guess the singer had to call her husband's doctor after four hours, since apparently he wasn't about to make the phone call.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
I posted this ages ago in another thread, but it seems to fit better here.
Paradise Apprehended
Mayhap in youth thou wast obliged to read,
For reason unbeknownst or unreveal’d
Or e’en set forth though not well understood,
A poem, like the world, devoid of end;
And somewhat sparsely stocked with full-stops, too,
Though forc’d full as a feather’d Christmas goose
With sub-clauses, enbracketed asides,
Diversions in parentheses unseen
And colons scatter’d: broadcast, as might be
From out the hand of God like silver’d stars
Thrown careless ’pon the darkling firmament
In multitudes to mortal mind confound:
Which – and here we’re harking back to ‘poem’ –
Was billed in the curriculum or notes
As perhaps the greatest blank-verse epic work
In English; or in any other tongue:
And ploughing through it, line by turgid line,
As one compelled to eat a sheepskin rug,
Thou mayst have wondered what the bloody hell
Could be the gain, of knowledge, or of joy,
Despite whate’er grades thou wouldst achieve
To rise to high Academe.
Fair point.
In truth, the lumpen tone of Paradise
Lost is such a product of its time
That it’s of int’rest only to those few
To whom Milton is Hist’ry (not High Art!)
As ‘twere a mammoth cold-preserv’d in ice.
On top of that, the poem’s moral stance
And theologick thrust are obsolete.
Age of Reason, my spare freaking rib.
E’en as metaphor it’s pretty lame.
Were style and content not enough to zonk
Thee off to sleep as might a hand-cupped draught
Of Lethe’s flow or poppy’s Orient sap,
Then John’s insistent soporific iambs
Thumping like a party down the hall
Will spirit dull and senses all benumb.
Ti-dum ti-dum ti-dum ti-bloody-dum.
Oh my God! How did I miss these? Especially as you took one of the mant sacrosanct lyrics by St. Cole - and made it into something that even He would have to admire!
Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Gee, thank you, Prince! I've totally forgotten about this thread. Will try to come up with some new ones soon.
Better yet, perhaps the more accomplished and wittier LitNutters will post some good parodies.
I was tempted, believe you me, and even began a parody of "The Raven" but found it almost impossible to exceed the innate parodic quality of the original.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Mr. Leopold Bloop pigged out on chunks of cow, pigs innards and bit’s of bird’s bit’s. He liked stodgy offal soup, grizzled nuts, a crude creation made from something uncrude, an unheard of undelicacy. Most of all he liked charified hardened lambykins blood which gave to most peoples palate’s a vile tang of strong smelling ****.