Archive for the ‘parody’ Category



By blood Lat-ino

It is OK in US of A!

Always there is a damn way

Always there are bills to pay

And the hellsapoppin!

But don’t you worry

And the sunlight streaming

And the natives steaming

Cool when the drug mules arrive


By blood Latino

It is OK in US of A


I like to be in US of A

My credit always good at gunpoint

Man at the end gets the hint- pronto!


For a small fee in US of A


A shiv is what gets you discount


One look at us and they charge twice


But two fall when Chico whips his rod

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Scotch, make it double, Joe while you are at it-

My thirst is not what we need concern now

I cadge freely your drinks, well what of it?


Rage, rage against the dying of the light-

Nothing good can come out of it I know

Unless with booze wash this red-hot gullet.


I shall hold my life a ransom to thirst:

Dare not go gentle into night somehow

Like whipt cur on the run,- but first things first ,-


Sweet is the day but will live to regret:

Youth who lay hope more than day shall allow

Has nothing left but golden youth misspent


Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight,

Time the bloody hound making a meal of

Hope, they ne’r even had a chance at it.


Rage, rage against the dying of the light:

Life was a holy grail to seek and now

I know my life from youth up was mis-hit

Curse, bless, Oh does it matter in the least?


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Parody on the Balcony Scene Act 2sc.ii-

But soft what light through yonder window breaks…

Medusa! your hair is all a-tumble, Fie!

Had you wash’d and tied your hair as before

My love would have grown wings at mere mention

Of your name and fallen at feet, a fool

Faint for love,- Oh Medusa strange is your head

(More terror I have never felt till now -)

How strange that your tresses breathe pestilence,

Are they horrid vipers dining on lice?

Tell me but wait! I feel, Oh something strange

Your eyes pierce with their laser points

And it is not honey your serpent tongue drips:

Ay me! With venom ting’d I’m all aflutter

My heart winds down and the throat closes in.

I am not a fool for love Oh Medusa

I am stone dead and am consign’d to hellfire!

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Let me not coin new meaning to words

Or alter their sense for mere badinage:

Broken pediments may add grace to facades

But words void of wit and sense are BeauNash

Playing dandy among a mournful wake.

I have miscalled pediments impediments

And Paul Bremer for Beau Brummel, a rake.

Words are a good man’s trusted implements-

In music chords do allow inversion

But mix up fundament for aliment

another might think it as some perversion,

If in need of vigor take supplement.

But if you are not Dam Malaprop

Treat words and their sense as walk on tight rope.


Original Version:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

   If this be error and upon me proved,

   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

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‘Play it loud, play it loud

You damn well know how loud-

Blast those would rather squeak,

We are the band from hell,

‘Blast the bugles left and right

Sound fifes!’ we did as told !

‘We are the band from hell!’


‘Sound bugles Sound them louder.’

But we lost the game sir!

Fanfare of our trumpets

Was no match for lungs in throes

By a mushroom cloud

Expanding and shredding-

Hell’s Bells! Sound the last Post!


Hell to the right and left-

Death retching bucket full

No hands to empty them;

Sick yellow dust full blown

Carries their stench all about-

Hell has come into its own:

Music is fled, so is silence.



Original Version:

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!
”Charge for the guns!” he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred….



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The Isles of Greece! The isles of Greece

Wherefore this amnesia, drunk from Lethe?

Have you forgotten the warrior race

Whose swords smote down kings and forthwith

‘Here be warriors that knew no fear’

Went thus message post-haste far an’ near?

Sparta led and the hordes of foes

Before their tight phalanxes melted:

In Athens no less brave were demos

Before whose iron resolve tyrants fled.

Spartan or rich in tastes at best

Were men who deemed their own lives least.

What service has the Turks bestowed

That you let your blood and honor

Be trod and your wives as slaves sold?

Martyrs for faith in Asia minor

Lay forgotten as of no value.

For a slave race this’s nothing new.

Spare me your woes with Euro bail-out

Or the Golden Dawn spawn’d from hell.

How slaves for long living on hand-out

Are undone is a sad chronicle:

A land of slaves shall ne’er regain

Unless Greece unlearn past as one.


Original Version

THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,

Where grew the arts of war and peace,—

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!

Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,

Have found the fame your shores refuse;

Their place of birth alone is mute

To sounds which echo further west

Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.”


Place me on Sunium’s marble steep—

Where nothing, save the waves and I,

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep:

There, swan-like, let me sing and die;

A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

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Sleep, sleep? I am not dead nor am I tired

Dream of life sets me tasks that shall not wait,

Nightmares that chase my lot if duty shirked.

Many excuses are waking life’s bait

And in cloying phantoms failures they rate

And often these presage sad truth of life:

It is not such as flesh and bones that hurt

Or demean man’s life with corrosive grief

But chances missed and begun with no heart

That the game lost e’en before it could start.

Original Version:

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep,

       He hath awaken’d from the dream of life;

       ‘Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep

       With phantoms an unprofitable strife,

       And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife

       Invulnerable nothings. We decay

       Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief

       Convulse us and consume us day by day,

And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

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