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  #31  
Unread 01-18-2018, 11:23 AM
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John (J.D.) Smith John (J.D.) Smith is offline
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Anything from Zaranka's The Brand-X Anthology of Poetry might work for teaching parody.
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  #32  
Unread 01-18-2018, 11:24 AM
Roger Slater Roger Slater is offline
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I suppose we all have a few of these:



Whenas in style my Julia dines
She says ‘My perfect valentine’s
The one who buys me fancy wines,

The kind that make a girl go ape
And pray to God she won’t escape
The liquefaction of the grape.’

And so, to have a bon, bon soir
And end up in my love’s boudoir,
I buy her pricey pinot noir.


*

Whenas in dreams my Julia takes
My hand, my heart no longer breaks,
And though I’m sleeping there awakes

In me a sense that so-called dreams
Are more than merely that which seems
But that which is. The rest are schemes,

A bunch of lies that I’ve been fed.
But when I wake alone in bed
I lie there stunned I’ve been misled.
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  #33  
Unread 01-26-2018, 01:11 PM
Patrick Murtha Patrick Murtha is offline
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To eat or not to eat? Is that your question?
Whether ‘tis good the gut endures a dish
Of beans, asparagus, and collard greens
Or take a rib or roast and by such meats
Our cravings feed? To nibble, snitch, or snack—
No, more! And by these meals we mean to say
No more of spinach, lettuce and the like
As women want: ‘tis beef! A supper, sure,
To be desired! To munch, to chomp, to chew!
A buffet—feast perhaps, and not in dreams!
For in that feast what flavored foods would come,
Like tatters, gravies, rib eyes, puddings, pies,
Portions of pork and fat...ay, there's the rub:
For as we feed what flab will cling and hang
About our chins and waists; what blubber builds
Its piles and stocks its stores about our thighs;
What bellies, swelled with swallowed lard, now bulge
The shirt, then drape and droop and over-brim
The belts and bury, yeah, the buckle, and pop
The buttons ‘round the gut—this gives us pause
And freezes mid-raised forks before we gnaw
With wat’ring teeth the tender juicy steak
Or cram in mouth the moistest crumbs of cakes!
From dread to bloat like bladders or balloons,
From fear of portly paunch, we stomach foods
Deplete of spices, carbs, and goodly fats;
We suffer parsnips, peppers, cabbage, corn;
We torture all our tastes with turnips, peas,
And yams; we bear the beets, yet pour our beers
In sinks and wet the lawn with wine undrunk.
And rather than fermented grains or grapes—
The nectar of the gods—we bottom up
Bad milk or some basidiomycete—
Merely a mushroom, to pronounce it plain—
A baby’s drink and mold deemed edible when
They are kefir and then kambucha called.
And too we stifle native thirst with juice,
Unnaturally wrung from carrots and from kale.
This and much more we eat and drink when dread
Visions of chubby cheeks disturb our dinners
And drive us to such diets fit for none.
So doing, corpulence is kept away,
And ourselves look like gangly sticks and skulk
From supper table to the porcelain pot,
Dulled and disgruntled in our skin-wrapped bones.
Thus grease makes anorexics of us all
And spoils our love of all that's scrumptious here.
Mock now no more my swelling girth or thighs
Or triple chin. But let me be content and round,
And let, in this, my plate my palate please.
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  #34  
Unread 01-26-2018, 06:20 PM
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RCL RCL is offline
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1510.2

How happy is the little stone
As hard as Heads of solid Bone
Something like a Mental drone
That rambles through this Sphere alone—

Its subtext but a muffled—Moan—
When often kicked—no Mercy shown.
None of accruing Moss is mown
When it romps—a Rolling Stone—

A simple little—solo—Clown
Of Bullshit’s elemental—Brown.

Emily Dickinson, “How happy is the little stone”
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Last edited by RCL; 08-20-2023 at 03:47 PM.
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  #35  
Unread 01-28-2018, 04:59 PM
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Default The Last Valentine

Wifey

After Sylvia Plath, “Daddy”

Mon Dieu! I cannot live with you,
a wife whose dark charms grew
for seven long unholy years
after we said, I do.

Oh no, I must be rid of you,
whose spells have made me blue,
moving me to pooling tears
when you do your voodoo.

True, it’s true, I’m leaving you,
who melts my mind to glue,
strains my brain and carves my heart out,
boils it in your brew.

Now, I’m going, cursing you:
your tongue’s a torture screw
racking me to finally shout,
Adieu, you witch, we’re through!
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Last edited by RCL; 01-28-2018 at 06:00 PM. Reason: had dropped last 2 lines
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  #36  
Unread 01-29-2018, 07:15 PM
Martin Elster Martin Elster is offline
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A Wise Fool

Some say my mongrel’s very wise,
some say a fool.
Were you to look into his eyes
you’d hold with those who call him wise.
But if you do not want a pool
of slobber on you while you eat,
don’t have your lunch around that fool.
He’ll get your meat
or you’ll get drool.


Verse Versus Prose

Some say that verse is truly great,
some say it’s prose.
Since verse will make me salivate
I hold with verse: it’s really great!
But were the scribes to recompose,
I think I’ve read enough reports
to say that I become from prose
quite out of sorts
with a runny nose.
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  #37  
Unread 01-29-2018, 07:20 PM
Martin Elster Martin Elster is offline
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The Rum Tum Husky

With apologies to T.S. Eliot

The Rum Tum Husky is a curious dog:
if you offer him a bone, he would go for a sardine.
If you give him a sardine, he’d want a bullfrog in a bog.
If you bring him to a bog, he would favor a ravine.
If you reach a nice ravine, he would rather have a jog.
If you take him for a jog, he would rather he were seen
tugging a sled with others of his kind.
The Rum Tum Husky was a lucky find
for a guy who hadn’t the slightest clue
in the ways of dogs. But he never got fined
for any misdeed his dog would do.
Yes, the Rum Tum Husky is a curious dog,
of which there’s little cause to shout:
for he will do as he will do.
On the neighbor’s lawn he stopped to do
what there’s no doing anything about!
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  #38  
Unread 01-29-2018, 08:23 PM
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Allen Tice Allen Tice is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Julie Steiner View Post
I don't have anything of my own to contribute, but I feel obliged to mention Hugh Clary's obscene take on Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening," previously posted to Eratosphere here.
Much obliged, Julie.
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  #39  
Unread 01-31-2018, 10:51 PM
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Tony Barnstone Tony Barnstone is offline
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Wow! I got so crazy busy that I had to drop my own thread. Apologies. I've read through them all with immense pleasure and many laughs and will be using a few for my survey course. Thanks for helping me feed my students a diet of the canon and make them snicker in the process. Best, Tony
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  #40  
Unread 02-01-2018, 04:19 PM
Martin Elster Martin Elster is offline
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A Superannuated Subaltern’s Love Song

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
I recall how you trounced me in tennis. You won
every game we had played. But I’ve since gotten better,
while you have grown plump from the crackers and cheddar,

French fries, Coca-Cola, banana split
which, at last, have removed all the benefit
of your formerly graceful and light-footed traits.
Sad to say, you no longer are one of the greats.

Since we moved to the States, you’ve developed an eye
for potato chips, ice cream, and apple pie,
M&M’s, Dagwood sandwiches, bacon and eggs,
which have turned your lithe, sinewy legs into kegs.

At least you can still toss a ball for our mutt,
even if it is while you are perched on your butt.
Before reaching a ton, I encourage you, hon,
go fly back to Aldershot, promptly, Miss Dunn!

Last edited by Martin Elster; 02-01-2018 at 04:36 PM.
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