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Archive for the ‘parodies’ Category

 

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his from rust belt

Squeaky,- oh need some oil
The carpenter singing, his thumb is,- oh it hurts!

Sawed neat between his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for john, all gravel must out

That is a bloody work for sure!
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, quarantine makes

Even a hardy Captain lurch like a deckhand, corona virus got him

Yes sirree! singing is more a caterwaul!
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, Nike simply laid him off

And he wallows among his lasts and discarded rubber soles

There is a pandemic blowing across the land
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,

Or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs

Long stilled when the Mighty dollar sounded his trumpet:

Put a nickel and the jukebox will sing for any idiot

Who is hooded and his heart has a lynching song.

Blue collar worker and white collar workers alike

Have had change of heart

New you hear is no more the same: Corona virus got them all

A song is no song if heart has stopped beating for your brother

Come black, come yellow the white is black and black is white

When the dollar drew blood and what poured out is now a pandemic.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, sharecroppers busboys and janitors

Each one singing his from heart is lost In the howling

Winds of unrest.

benny

 

 

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(The spin doctor responsible for the famous “Labour isn’t working” poster during Margaret Thatcher’s general election campaign has died aged 77. ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ Sorry Metallica, -benny)

 

For whom the bell tolls:
Tim had his line.
For whom the bell tolls
Tim had his word.
‘Labor isn’t working’ got Thatcher her plum role
The lie well told did the trick:
let Marge lead ‘er barge up the Brexit; what now?
Benny

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Perfidious Albion

 

No deal, oh not much time! Either way Brexit

Whether we settle in the end  a back stop

Or hard,- where the border takes us, I wonder-

A border is a border for disaster

I shall dump Irish question straightway-

EU can have Dublin solve this one

So my promise I keep to do or die:

Brexit is over with! -’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished! To speak one thing,

And do another is Prime Ministerial

So easy with no conscience prick

I do but dying is for another.

Benny

 

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Out of the blue these lines came into my mind “What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio. Look upon thy death. (Ac.1sc.1)”
Writing a whole play is not worth my while. You cannot improve upon a rose any more than a play of the bard.
So I shall do a sketch; what if Benvolio had put up a fight?
B:
Shears of hell thy blade be-
But what fear hold I,
you wretched Tybalt?
(Drawing a stiletto from the folds of cloak),
This short but nasty
steel knows no fear;
nor my wrist hurt of insults
hurled at me.
(Lungest at Tybalt and wounds him)
Caught you in midst of
sins unconfessed
Didn’t I?
And begone!
Hounds of hell yelp at the gate.
At the gate already!
You shall sup with  worms tonight “
Benny
Afterall the BBC 2 program ‘Pointless’ has a point. This evening I watched the contestants having to fill the blanks of the lines from the Bard. It set me thinking.

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Sleep is nature’s cure when body has run
His weary rounds, a bed is just the thing;
Still is the body but his soul moves on; 30

Between being and un-being sleep holds something
A balancing act where a starry heaven
To the measure o’ man, but is this soul thing? 33

Death must with sleep settle in dimension
Altogether new for which leave my soul
To know worth and reckon the best bargain. 36

Soul must arbiter for all who their goal,
Being bonded for life and beyond, serves man
A pole star, to lift man out of his hole. 39

Thus it was with me one night when sleep had
Taken ease, I suspect my soul sent the three
Fates of Attic shape who before me stood, 42

The dream with Sibyls set my confines free
As though I lay beneath the vault of Sistine
And the three had stepped out on a spree! 45

(To be continued)
Benny

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Stroll down the colonnade of life, mosaic
Of days lend youth its Byzantine color;
But my soul would loath it as life prosaic. 12

Thus assail’d by doubts and misspent choler
Of youth as ashes when fire has died out
Of his blood, and leave nothing but pother: 15

By the midst o’ my woeful days I struck out
Past my depths, my route on impulse ringed
My soul might yet redeem entire past rout. 18

A walk simple into the woods where hope winged
Alternate with pitfalls along the ground
must give man pause, his purpose unhinged 21

Perhaps my soul would read my tracks and sound
Alarm or set escape route in case of need
Oh no! with my own will I come this round. 24

Long onslaught with Fates and Furies’ full rede
Did unravel much of my confusion,
And yet loath I was let my soul aside. 27

Benny

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Somewhere on the loom of life what I wove
I found design with each shuttle vary
Till its overall sign with my soul strove; 3

Ah me! how hard a thing it is for me
Admit my own hand my own pattern should
Prove a lie and cast it back,-Oh fie 6

Such a life of bitter toil weave its shroud,
Plodding hands with eye for long set in peace
But nothing what my soul’s design had show’d. 9

benny

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