Parodies

Burning the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Ever wonder how Robert Frost’s poetry would have turned out if he’d been a little less… er… nice?

Whose woods these are I think I’ve found
He has a penthouse in the town
He will not see me stopping here
To burn his forest to the ground

My little horse must think it queer
To spread this gasoline far and near
Between the woods and frozen lake
While gulping down a can of beer

He gives his harness bells a shake
Which means, “We’d better split now, Jake”
The only other sound’s the crack
Of fire, ashes in its wake

The woods are smoking, burnt and black
But I’ve a sore and creaking back
And miles before I hit the sack
And miles before I hit the sack

Jab a Wookiee

(Widow Polly’s cheese too Blue-Ass Carl)

A translation into Anguish Languish, inspired by the work of Howard L. Chace.

Truss spillage, in to slide the toes,
Dead guy ran, gambled entry way
Balm in seawalled harbor, a cove,
Send them home, rats; shout “Grape!”

“Be where they jab a wok, meson!
Hedge audit byte, heckle awes dead cats;
Be weird — a shrub’s a perdition
Deaf roomiest pandas match!”

Eat two kissed verbal sardine cans,
Wrong dime demands some phony sot
Sore as Ted’s heap, hie to dumb Dundee,
Ants, too, the violin taught.

Antacid, a fish taught, is stewed,
They jab a wok, wet thighs half-lame,
Game if Lynn threw tea — told she would —
Amber ball tacit game!

Want to? Want to? Ain’t true, ain’t true,
Tree verbal plate wants knickers’ knack
Elephant addend wit is had
Event gal humping black.

“Unasked house lane, they jab a wok?
Contumely harms may be missed poi!
Oaf wrapped just hay! Call ukele-
le!” Short tall dinner soy.

Truss spillage, in to slide the toes,
Dead guy ran, gambled entry way
Balm in seawalled harbor, a cove,
Send them home, rats; shout “Grape!”

Ozymandias

This isn’t so much a parody as something inspired by Shelley’s poem. It describes (from an early 1980s viewpoint) a post-apocalyptic view of the Fermi National Accelerator lab in general, and its computer center (then housed on the seventh floor) in particular.

On ruined Earth, where mankind first arose,
and purged in flame the home he left behind
a hollow tower stands. No savant knows
its purpose, although students long have mined
enigmas here.

Great stacks of paper lie
obscured by flies and plastic cups and dust,
and here one finds a notebook — there, nearby,
a drafting board and desk, now gone to rust.

And queerer still, upon the seventh floor,
strange boxes, fit with keys and phosphor screens,
are silent; but faint power at the core
of some reactor yet drives these machines.

Of all Earth’s mysteries, here is the best:
What means their omen — “SYSTEM DOWN, NO EST.”?

Advertisements