Sciforums Poetic Parodies.

URSON!! Groovy man....

The person Urson, only one measly post does our person Urson bestow on his mindfellows.

But, my, what a post! Legible, consice, creative, and NOT calling the gendy a whore for once.

Urson the person is lovesome, Welcome to sciforums Urson.

I bid you greetings
and ask in meetings
that Meph and you may have-
that you send Meph
in those there meetings
all my loving, caring beatings.

 

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Bring on the merry makers.....the callous tinkerers and dreams.



Up for another one, my lord? I've an itch to stir trouble......

 

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So then!
Is it that my muse wishes to enitce us yet again with her words fair?
What say you muse? will you regail us with a parody to while away the time, or are you merely calling out for those who have a gift for the verse, and wit to match?

 

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Mephurio:

Like with like, my liege.

All you warrior poets making love with the quill........pen my thread back to life again.


Its time for beauty and splendor so break out the cellars and let out the magic staffs, monsiuers. Lets make these butterflies dance the butterfly dance in this land of strange moons.

I'll be back on the morrow with a ditty to stir my pools brand new, what say you?

 

So be it then.
To long has the waters of this pool laid still.
Let us see what words may come from from a mind and heart so inspired.
For butterflies and fairies, for things of magic and castles in the clouds,
Let us breath new life into that which was once dead.

 

M'lady, haven't you learned yet?
Failing you is something I shall not do.
Death would be perferable to failing in duty taken up.

 

Based on "To the Thawing Wind" by robert frost

Sing your song, O silent gale!
Pick words like fruit and weave your tale;
Show yourself in what you move,
since you've not words for deeds to prove.
With your song, remit thy gilt
and instead, if thou wilt,
Shine forth a more virtuous light
and chase away this dark night.
Vanish forth doubt and woe
Like some impuissant foe;
Roar into my deafened ears
So that even I might hear;
Your silent song, gale, sing;
Peaceful tones to this world bring;
Be done with winter; call forth spring.

 

Mephurio:

::in perfect Wonka fashion::

WONderful! And now......a lullaby to wake mummies.

( I know full well I promised one today, but I've been slightly put off just now. Hold on)

 

Loosely based on.................

A Sea Dirge, by Lewis Carroll


There are certain things- as poodles, gargoyles, and ayes ayes for three
That I hate, but the thing I hate the most
Is a thing we called Spooky.

Pour some logic on manure
Ugly I’m sure you’ll find him to be
Seeing how small he is, not more
Is that thing we called Spooky.

Beat a dog till it howls outright-
Cruel, but all very well for a spree
Supposed he did so day and night
THAT is what I call Spooky.


I had a vision of wandering bats
Tens of thousands passed by me-
All leading kids with wooden mules
And in the end, no more Spooky.


Who invented that thing of wood?
Who was it cut them out from trees?
None, I think, but an idiot could -
Ones that love and kill Spooky.


Its wonderous dreamy, to find afloat
The masks of many in waters free.
But suppose I am uwell in my gloat
That garbage dumps are all afloat and swoll with the remnants of Spooky.

 

Disclaimer:

In case we forget, since they're simply forgettable:

The poodle is none other than Spookz.
The gargoyle, this thing we call fountainhed.
And the aye aye, that diseased twat we all knew as Wraith.

 

Look, my lord. No matter rain nor shine my thread dies.....

Care for a closing ceremony or do you too itch to stir trouble?

 

Dorothy Parker's Resume

Dolts pain you;
their threads are damp;
the nonsense stains you;
And flamewars cause cramp.
Truth is not lawful;
pretensions give;
tolerance feels awful;
Why do we let them live?

 

Ha!

 

my appologies for being picky about what choose to work with.
I have high standards. You should know that.
You will have something new by the morn.

Lucy, thanks for helping to breath new life here.

 

The original by charles bukowski

man in the sun
she reads to me from the New Yorker
which I don't buy, don't know
how they get in here, but it's
something about the Mafia
one of the heads of the Mafia
who ate too much and had it too easy
too many fine women patting his
walnuts, and he got fat sucking at good
cigars and young breasts and he
has these heart attacks - and so
one day somebody is driving him
in his big car along the road
and he doesn't feel so good
and he asks the boy to stop and let
him out and the boy lays him out
along the road in the fine sunshine
and before he dies he says:
how beautiful life can be, and
then he's gone.

sometimes you've got to kill 4 or 5
thousand men before you somehow
get to believe that the sparrow
is immortal, money is piss and
that you have been wasting
your time.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Man in the sun cries out to us from Sparta,
And I doubt he lies, a noble effort
identifying bob to bob,
Bobs a dead-head who consumes too much
Thinks too little and finds it too easy sucking
his own dick while searching out Xev in a post
‘Bite me!' Bite me harder Genet knew well
what the inquisitor hides who fancies himself a
bat because he thinks it looks cool yet he fears
the wolf he knows is no fool
He beats the keys to break the ache and keep
From chocking on sperm-and so
always half asleep he reclines
along his feline chaise lounge under the bright
moonlight and says: how beautiful
life can be, and then he’s gone.

Sometimes you’ve got to waste 4 or 5
Thousand words before you somehow
Get to believe that Xev’s wolf is
Immortal, envy is piss and that you
Have been wasting your time.

 

It would seem that there is one thing on everyone's mind as of late, so I guess I too, will partake.
Flavor of the month, so to speak...


Based on "The White Knight's Song"
by Lewis Carroll

"Americans" or "The Stupid, Prideful Bob" or
"Life and Death" or "Beware of Giving Greeks"

He'll tell you everything he can,
and he'll rattle on for weeks.
"Everyone you know is a Bob",
Has spat this silly greek.
"My words are mirrors," He has said
"That show what's inside of you."
And though his ideas are long dead
He sings them like they're new.

He says "I speak of deeper truths,
That ancient minds did find;
I make them into ugly things,
To scare away weak minds.
I search for my lost tribe," he said,
"Who, without me wander;
Sometimes I think they are all dead--
But on that, I'll not ponder."

But I have seen his kind before
and so, am not impressed.
Their consant chatter is a bore;
They rant as if obsessed.
So, wishing not to urge him on
To even further heights,
I tried but once to show anon
How his words were naught but tripe.

His ancient cause he took up then;
He said, "I look for minds,
That can be like mine when,
I fill them with my lines.
And thence I'll have a tribe my own
To teach my learned ways--
Yet all I find is more groans
When I show my essays."

"It must be 'cause they fear me so;
Because I reflect their mind.
And so is the tale of my woe,
Looking for my noble kind.
I've looked high and low, far and wide,
Until they throw me out;
Come to me my kindred, I've cried "
And on and on he'll spout.

He said, "I hunt for fertile ground,
The brightest of the bright,
And talk till they won't make a sound
Saying that I am not right.
And this I do because it's good,
It's noble and it's just.
So noble minds throw back your hoods,
Stop working in the dust,"

"And flock to me, my noble sheep,
Come hear my learned words.
I'll teach you of my thoughts so deep
And lead you like a herd.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I'll get my wealth--
For though my book might truly stink,
It will fly off amason's shelf"

I heard him then, for Ithis was new.
A slightly improved plan
To keep the masses doubts subdued
And eating from his hand.
I thanked him not for showing me
The way he got his cash,
For though the improved the plan might be
I still think it's rather rash.

And now, if e'er by chance I read
Some simple minded posts,
Or see someone fillingt heir human needs
With internet ghosts,
Or if I come across a show
whose plot is very weak,
I cringe, for it reminds me so
Of that old man whose tricks I know--
Whose life was mild, whose thoughts were low,
Whose mind seemed more than a little slow,
Who seemed to like the taste of crow
Who claimed, like fungus, he would grow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who flung his tired line to and fro,
And stroked constantly his own ego,
As if he thought we liked the show,
All this just for a little dough--
That cold winter fraught with snow
When I first spied greek.





Ok, not my best work to be sure, but I had to deliver as promised.

 

(Like an old Hobbit song about taking baths. Hobbits are not gay, dammit!)

Sing Hey! for a thread with a content full
of philosophy that might not be bull!
A fool is he that would not post
in such a thread, by Great Spookz' Ghost!

O! Sweet is the sound of thread that flames
with the snarls and threats and the calling of names
but better than yowls and invective mean
are the new ideas that might be seen!

O! Threads are fine that are made by wes
into fourteen-dimensional games of chess
but better than chess is when wesmorris inks
a clear account of what he thinks!

O! Plunge we into the great morass
of "Janet's Boob" and "Kiss my Ass!"
but never we mind if we are burned
as long as there's something to be learned!

 

I believe this is my favorite stanza.
The question begs to be asked though:

Can wes actually make what he thinks clear?

 

a brain which is reeling with intellectual glare,
yields words often met with blank empty stares.

i want you to see the thoughts in my mind,
but lacking the language I leave you behind.

i don't want to be in here all alone,
so struggle I will to throw you a bone

more later.

 

Yes! Check out the Shape of Language thread:

http://www.sciforums.com/showthread.php?t=30178

Where wes is actually much clearer than I.