<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=425882" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Rode to a Knight Impale - after John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">. :) kindly refer to notes. :) </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My part aches and a rousing stiffness pains <br>my whole as though viagra I had drank, <br>or loosened up some pheronomic chains <br>split seconds past, endorphined, anticipating prank. <br>'Tis not through envy that I ask a lot, <br>but seeking through your image happiness, <br>love-lipped epitome of all that please <br>amused muse stays aware that what you've got <br>conjurs wet dreams, streams’ ready eddies numberless, <br>straw hollow swallows spring in full-throated ease. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been <br>fat vat prime time cocked, erect in deep pelvic berth, <br>tasting of horny fauna’s jelly beans, <br>dancing tandem to tambourine song since sunny birth! <br>O for a beaker full of the warm south, <br>filled to whet winking brink noways obscene, <br>with beaded bubbles oozing at the brim, <br>of purple-hooded mouth; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, <br>and with thee knock on doors quite in the swim: <br>ride far away, knot solve, and quite forget <br>what you senses leaves had never known, <br>no weariness, no fever, and no fret. <br>Here, men lose wit to hear each other groan <br>as palsy shakes a few, sad, beardless chins, <br>where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and sighs; <br>where but to think of size baits rod with sorrow <br>and leaden-eyed despairs, <br>No, Beauty, none may mime your lustrous eyes, <br>where new Love pines, fears un-orgasmic morrow. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Away! away! for I will fly to thee, <br>not roped in by vile censors, critics’ pards, <br>but on untrammelled wings of intimacy, <br>though most dull brains perplex, their sloth retards. <br>Already with thee! tender is the night, <br>and tenderness my motto ‘tis well known <br>to massage tissues starry nights, sun days, <br>without the which love’s light <br>moons absence of reflection, breezes blown <br>through tortuous gameplays, inexperienced ways. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You should not care what flowers are at your feet, <br>for all is incense garland, and endows <br>each lip, limb, breast, - the rest remains as sweet - <br>with honey suckling even as wand ploughs <br>though grassy thicket, wondrous fruit-tree wild <br>sure cherry’s torn, implants thorn eglantine <br>shunning fast cover-ups fading leaves <br>sham office as protector of some child defiled. <br>Sense coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, <br>murmurous echoes ecstacy believes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Darling now moisten, come for many a time, <br>relive this moment French call little-death, <br>worshipping at life’s shrine in many a musèd rhyme, <br>forgetting even air to take in breath. <br>Now more than ever seems it rich to lie, <br>to wheeze on meet mate midnight with no pain, <br>while greeting pouring forth thy soul abroad <br>in such an ecstasy! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still would you sing, I'll not change gears in vain - <br>to thy high requiem propose a sod. <br>Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! <br>what hungry generations tread thee down? <br>Choice made this pass_sings maid's knight is revered <br>in future days, who dare gainsays is clown. <br>Perhaps the self-same song that found sound track path <br>through Penelope heart, sick Ulysees home, <br>when swathed in tears amid the online porn; <br>sound swound that oft-times hath <br>charm'd magic casements, opening on dome's foam <br>from perilous seize, in faery lands forlorn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For porn! the very word is like a bell <br>to toll me back to thee from my sole self! <br>fancy can't cheat, nor canvas so well <br>your avatar as ‘tis now, deceiving elf. <br>Encore! Encore! thy anthem floats through glades <br>and meadows, towns and cities fills, fast streams <br>down from hilly chest till buried deep <br>in secret valley’s shades: <br>This is no vision, more a wa[n]king dream, <br>bed is that music: - Do I shake, you weep? </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>3 March 2009<br>Parody Ode to a Nightingale John Keats</div><div style="margin:10px 0">n.b. in 19th Century France an orgasm was referred to as la petite morte - the little death</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Ode to a Nightingale</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains <br>My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, <br>Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains <br>One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: <br>'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, <br>But being too happy in thine happiness, - <br>That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees <br>In some melodious plot <br>Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, <br>Singest of summer in full-throated ease. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been <br>Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, <br>Tasting of Flora and the country green, <br>Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! <br>O for a beaker full of the warm South, <br>Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, <br>With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, <br>And purple-stainèd mouth; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, <br>And with thee fade away into the forest dim: <br>Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget <br>What thou among the leaves hast never known, <br>The weariness, the fever, and the fret <br>Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; <br>Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, <br>Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; <br>Where but to think is to be full of sorrow <br>And leaden-eyed despairs, <br>Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, <br>Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Away! away! for I will fly to thee, <br>Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, <br>But on the viewless wings of Poesy, <br>Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: <br>Already with thee! tender is the night, <br>And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, <br>Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; <br>But here there is no light, <br>Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown <br>Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, <br>Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, <br>But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet <br>Wherewith the seasonable month endows <br>The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; <br>White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; <br>Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; <br>And mid-May's eldest child, <br>The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, <br>The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Darkling I listen; and, for many a time <br>I have been half in love with easeful Death, <br>Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, <br>To take into the air my quiet breath; <br>Now more than ever seems it rich to die, <br>To cease upon the midnight with no pain, <br>While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad <br>In such an ecstasy! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain - <br>To thy high requiem become a sod. <br>Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! <br>No hungry generations tread thee down; <br>The voice I hear this passing night was heard <br>In ancient days by emperor and clown: <br>Perhaps the self-same song that found a path <br>Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, <br>She stood in tears amid the alien corn; <br>The same that oft-times hath <br>Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam <br>Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Forlorn! the very word is like a bell <br>To toll me back from thee to my sole self! <br>Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well <br>As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. <br>Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades <br>Past the near meadows, over the still stream, <br>Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep <br>In the next valley-glades: <br>Was it a vision, or a waking dream? <br>Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">John KEATS 1795_1821</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> <br>Keats in Babbit Land </div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Oh boy! Some head! I have a right smart pain<br>as though of neutral spirits I had drunk, <br>or mixed the eats with hashish and cocaine<br>and turned the old gray tissue into punk.<br>‘Tis not because I rubber at thy lot, <br>But, being too happy in thy happiness, <br>That thou, light-winged spieler of the trees<br>In some commodious plot<br>Of high-toned beeches, far as I can guess, <br>Boostest the summer with no extra fees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Gosh for a dry Martini that hath been<br>Cooled for a long while on a chunk of ice<br>Tasting of ante-Prohibition gin, <br>Dances and mirth, what’er the doggone price! <br>Gee for a whisky or a brandy sour, <br>Full of the right, the undiluted hooch, <br>With bubbles winking at the shaker’s whim<br>And full of pep and power; <br>That I might drink, and, having drunk it, mooch<br>Away with thee into the forest dim! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Mooch, beat it, out from under, and forget<br>What thou, in the out-doors hast never known.<br>The weary blow-hards and the tight-wad set<br>That spend their days in adding bone to bone, <br>Where he-men with red-blooded thoughts are not, <br>But simps and pikers, rousabouts and guys; <br>Where too much thinking makes the bean grow woolly<br>And pine for heck know what; <br>Where maidens cannot keep their goo-goo eyes<br>Nor new love feel next morning braced and bully.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Away! Away! For I will stunt with thee, <br>Not toted by a highball nor a Bronx, <br>But on the wings of ould scout Poesy, <br>Though the dull brain keeps missing it and plonks.<br>Away with thee! Nifty is the night<br>And haply on her throne is H.M. Moon, <br>Clustered about by all her one-spot dubs; <br>But here there is no light<br>Save what across the verdurous paths is strewn<br>Amongst the dandy shade-trees and the shrubs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>“I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, <br>But I can sense near all of them are nice; <br>This is the place that puts the s in sweet, <br>The o’s in odor, and the I in spice.<br>The hawthorn hustles and the fruit-tree wild<br>Has passed the word for pushfulness and gone<br>To violetsunderneath their leafy rughs<br>And mid-May’s hairiest child, <br>The coming muskèrose, brimmed with H²O, <br>Is boomed about by merchandising bugs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Darkling I listen; and I’ll tell the town<br>I’ve often ripped a swear, and said, ‘This bard<br>Would thank Professor Death to tootle down<br>And put the kybosh on him good and hard.’<br>And now I have a hunch that more than ever<br>To pass with no fool-fuss nor friends-along<br>At midnight for the New Jerusalem<br>Would be right clever –<br>Midnight, with thee still pumping out thy son, <br>The sole sky pilot of my requiem …”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>KNOX Edmund Valpy 1881_1971 <br>Parody John KEATS 1795_1821 - Ode to a Nightingale </div><div style="margin:10px 0">_________________________________________ ____</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Nighting Cat</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My head aches, and a clamerous wailing fils<br>My ears, as though on lobster I had dined, <br>And dreamt of heavy unreceipted bills<br>And scowling Hebrew owners, unrefined<br>And leach-like. Why then should my happy lot<br>Be made unhappy by thy happiness<br>That thou, soft-footed Tabby in the trees<br>Or some tall chimney-pot, <br>With caterwauls and squawlings numberless<br>Goadest to madness with full-throttled ease? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O, for a jug of water that hath been<br>Boiled a long time in Rotorum’s spring, <br>Or cool’d to nimagined cold on Green –<br>Land’s icy mountains – or on anything! <br>O for a saucer full of milk new-drawn, <br>With just a taste of luscious margarine, <br>O joy to dropp the prussic acid in<br>And leave it there till dawn.<br>That thou might’st drink and fly the world unseen, <br>Leaving thy carcass in the dusty bin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot fling the missiles from my feet –<br>I took my boots off ‘ere I went to bed –<br>But searching in te darkness I may meet<br>Some handy object that will do insead, <br>Boot-trees or brushes backed with ivory<br>That float into the midnight with no sounds, <br>Where thou, sweet Attic warbler, pour’st thy throat<br>In such an ecstasy, <br>Unconscious of the Fate that gathers round<br>To crush to silence at thy topmost note.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou wast not born for death, ungainly cat! <br>No mortal generations saw thee die.<br>I’m wearied out with constant throwing at<br>Thy graceless figure, black against the sky.<br>At last adieu! Thy plaintive squawling fades<br>Along the stone ledge of my window-sill, <br>Over the wall, and now ‘tis buried deep<br>Among the neighbouring glades.<br>Thank Heaven! I hear it on the distant hill; <br>Fled is that music. Now to get some sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>R. SWINHOE Parody John KEATS 1795_1821 - Ode to a Nightingale <br>_________________________________<br> <br>Ode to a Chanticleer</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My head aches, and a dusky color stains<br>My gown, as though of coffee I had durnk, <br>Or emptied some dull teacup to the drains<br>One minute past, and slumberwards had sunk, <br>Though not through liking of my happy lot<br>But being too nappy in my napiness.<br>While thou, harsh crowing father of the brood, <br>In some malodorous plot<br>Of cast out scraps, and chickens numberless, <br>Crowest of morning in full bloated mood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O for a tub of water! that hath been<br>Warmed for a long time by the deep kitchen range, <br>Brought in by Flora with a towel clean, <br>Sponge and Verbena salt, and morning change.<br>O for a packet full of the soap Pears, <br>Full of the true, the unctuous Lanoline, <br>With Millais’ “Bubbles’ linking it with him, <br>And brush with many hairs, <br>That I might bathe within my room unseen<br>And hurry far away from politicians slim! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Go far away, dissolve, and quite forget<br>What you amongst the hens could never stick, <br>The Cabintets, the questions and the fret<br>There, where men sit and hear each other speak; <br>Where anger shakes a few and thins Grey’s hairs, <br>Where wit grows pale, and spectre thin, and dies; <br>Where but to vote is to be full of sorrow<br>And suffragette despairs, <br>Where David cannot keep his lustrous eyes, <br>And M.P.s make a plan beyond to-morrow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Away! Away! for I am nigh well spent<br>And pestered much by Bonar and his pards, <br>I seek the upper house of Parliament, <br>Though the dull place perplexes and retards.<br>Already with them! comfy in the next<br>And haply the Haldane is on the throne<br>Clustered around by all the Tory peers; <br>But here there is no rest, <br>Save what, thank heaven, is with my office thrown; <br>The private room, where oft my footstep steers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot see what men are on their feet; <br>Nor what freak questions hang upon the tongue, <br>But in my private chamber guess the heat<br>Which questions from my ministers have wrung.<br>John Seely and the pastoral Runciman; <br>Fast fading statesmen covered up with fears; <br>And fortune’s latest child, <br>The coming Simon, primed with latest plan, <br>The murmurous talk of whips about his ears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Darkling I listen; and for many a day<br>I have been half in love with easeful B.., <br>Called him soft names in many a graceful way, <br>Taking the air upon the golfing ee; <br>Now more than ever seems it fit to go, <br>To sleep long after morning with no fear, <br>While thou art pouring forth thy voice abroad<br>In such an ecstasy! <br>Then would’st thou crow and I’d refuse to stir –<br>To thy harsh revelry become a nod.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou wast not made for work, immortal Bird; <br>No angry secretaries send thee chits; <br>The crow I hear this chilly morn was heard<br>In ancient days by Palmerston and Pitts: <br>Perhaps the self-same crow had found a path<br>Through the strange heart of Ben, when sick with praise, <br>He stood, with sneers, amid the alien scorn, <br>The same that oft-time hath<br>Stirred Russell’s casement, opening on the days<br>Of perilous hours in Gladstone’s time forlorn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Forlorn! the very word is like a knell<br>To call me now to sit upon the shelf! <br>Adieu! a party cannot cheat as well<br>As it is famed to do, deceiving elf.<br>Adieu! Adieu! Go cock-a-doodle, do, <br>Past the next window, round by Downing Street, <br>Up through Whitehall, past the Minster old, <br>And St. Stephen’s too: <br>Breakfast is ready, I must dress full fleet, <br>Done is your crowing, and my bath is cold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Archibald STODART-WALKER Parody John KEATS Ode to a Nightingale <br>STODART-WALKER A 1869_1934 <br>____________________________________<br> <br>Ode to Discord</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Hence loathèd Melody, whose name recalls<br>The mellow fluting of the nightingale<br>In some sequester’d vale, <br>The Murmur of the stream<br>Heard in a dream, <br>Or drowsy plash of distant waterfalls.<br>But thou, divine Cacophony, assume<br>The rightful overlordship in her room, <br>And with Percussion’s stimulating aid<br>Expel the heavenly but no longer youthful maid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Charles Larcom GRAVES 1856_1944<br>Parody John KEATS 1795_1821 - Ode to a Nightingale </div><div style="margin:10px 0">________________________________<br>Ode to a Jar of Pickles</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A sweet, acidulous, down-reaching thrill<br> Pervades my sense: I seem to see or hear<br>The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill<br> In autumn, when the crispy leaves are sere: <br>And odours haunt me of remotest spice<br> From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay, <br>Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho, <br> Where everything is nice: <br> The more I sniff, the more I swoon away, <br>And what else mortal palate craves, forgo.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Odours unsmelled are keen, but those I smell<br> Are keener; wherefore let me sniff again! <br>Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well<br> In youth, when pickles were a passing pain; <br>Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem, <br> And sugar-plums to olives doth prefer, <br>And even licks the pots of marmalade<br> When sweetness clings to them: <br> But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh, <br>Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> <br>III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon, <br> Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here, <br>As to the Dryad’s parching lips a boon, <br> And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear; <br>And, last of all, the pepper’s pungent globe, <br> The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire, <br>Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited, <br> I cast my trailing robe<br> O’er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre, <br>And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here shall my tongue in other wise be soured<br> Than fretful men’s in parched and palsied days; <br>And, by the mid-May’s dusky leaves embowered, <br> Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise.<br>No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born, <br> Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine; <br>Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed, <br> The lemon-tinted morn<br> Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine: <br>Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bayard TAYLOR 1825_1878<br>Parody John KEATS 1795_1821 - Ode to a Nightingale </div><div style="margin:10px 0">_____________________________________<br> </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ode to a Liberal Mocking-Bird</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">[On the return of a Tory Government to power for the second consecutive time. With respectful compliments to F.C.G. of the Westminster Gazette]</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Our brain aches and a torpor numbs our nerve<br>As though with opiates we were deep imbrued, <br>Being apparently condemned to serve<br>A second shift of penal servitude; <br>And we must envy thee thy happier lot, <br>Gay-earted Dryad of the trenchant plume, <br>Who till upon the post-meridian breeze<br>In thy green-tinted plot<br>Amid the Opposition’s ambient gloom<br>Chaffest the Tory with thy usual ease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O for a drink of water such as cools<br>The Liberal larynx torrid on the stump, <br>Smacking of Cockermouth’s perennial pools, <br>Of Wilfrid Lawson and the village pump! <br>O for a tankard full of H²O, <br>The true, the proletarian Hippocrene, <br>With Local Veto winking at the brim<br>And filtered mirth below; <br>That haply we might hop about the scene<br>With thy sublime agility of limb: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hop as our heart dictates, and quite ignore<br>What thou hast missed this many a summer-tide, <br>The weariness, amounting to a bore, <br>Of being always on the stronger side; <br>Where fat and callous-eyed indifference rusts<br>Even the Tory Blood’s incisive blade: <br>Where humour’s bolt is evermore discharged<br>At unresisting busts; <br>And wit that works by opposition’s aid<br>Dies of a liver horribly enlarged.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Frankly, immortal Bird, for five long years<br>We had a presage we should die that way, <br>And now the country’s voice confirms our fears<br>Almost allowing us to fix the day; <br>Now more than ever longingly we dream<br>Of times when Victory flushed the Liberal camp, <br>And there was ploughing in the sandy ruts; <br>Of Rosebery, grateful theme, <br>Of Harcourt on the vulnerable ramp<br>And all the vista lined with obvious butts.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For thee, a like regret would seem absurd; <br>No vast majorities depress thy brain; <br>Thou hast (if one might say it of a bird) <br>Thy faithful subjects in the Powers that reign.<br>Perhaps the self-same art in days by-gone<br>Tickled the ribs of Joseph’s brother-band, <br>When, o’er a coat of many patterns blent<br>His pictured optic shone<br>Through cosmic casements opening on the land<br>Of Goshen, when he ran the Government.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Government! The word is as a knell<br>Tolling us back to dulness of the Pit, <br>While thou art happy in another spell<br>Of the old hope forlorn that whets the wit.<br>There is thy Joseph, hewn a hundred times, <br>And, lke Valhalla’s warriors, frseh as paint! <br>Ah! in thy gallant fight against the gods, <br>Pity our bloodless rhymes, <br>That fall on hollow squadrons, pale and faint, <br>With never a chance to front the frowning odds! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sir Owen Seaman <br>Parody John Keats – Ode to a Nightingale</div><div style="margin:10px 0">______________________________ ________<br> <br>Ode To A Scotch Whiskey</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">My head aches, my hangover remains, <br>my sense as though a quart of gas I drunk<br>or chugged some kitchen cleanser to the drains.<br>An hours passed, I know that I am sunk, <br>I'm not in envious or happy lot.<br>But since I'm up and breathing, I should guess<br>that you oh Cutty Sark my favorite of scotch, <br>in some felonious plot<br>of bottled green, half emptied and label-less; <br>singest cirrhotic to me - of liver blotch.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Parody John Keats – Ode to a Nightingale<br>Author Unknown... Shy Lady Laurie 2001<br>http: //www.tenderbytes.net/forum/poemsplace/archive1/f poemsplacefrm18441a.html? topicID=30.topic</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">_____________ _____________________<br> <br>La Beldam Sans Directoire</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On the Recension of the Telephone Directory,1953</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Picture me, my dear, alone and<br>Palely doing whatever one does alone, <br>Receiving, perhaps, an imaginary message, <br>Silent – like Cortez – on a telephone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Emperorwise or clownlike listening<br>In my dark glasses – to the nightingale<br>Threading, no doubt, its song through the sad heart<br>Of Truth reduced to tears amid the ail. …</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Preferring sorrow to a harvest home: <br>For now, to save a little L.s.d., <br>Truth they compress and distance they compel<br>Who have retrenched the old Directory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">R. TOLSON</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Parody John KEATS – Ode to a Nightingale</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Parody John KEATS Various including Chapman's Homer and John KEATS - La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and The Nightingale</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>__________________________ _____<br> <br>Ode to the Nightingale</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>O you that from some southern land<br>Return with each new spring<br>To this reviving island and, <br>When in the humour, fling<br>A song so gallant, so divine, <br>Out on the night, if fairly fine, <br>As utterly to take the shine<br>Out of all birds that sing: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The thrush, grown conscious of your voice, <br>Retires behind his leaves, <br>The blackbird, not at all from choice, <br>Sits mopily and grieves; <br>That wealth of song can e’en transfix<br>Both dawning owls and farmyard chicks, <br>And the rude sparrow as he picks<br>Things off the couchant beeves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You are the theme, all themes above, <br>The bards have held most dear: <br>Bar Wordsworth, who preferred the dove, <br>Even the most austere<br>On you have cast their loveliest gems<br>From Wight to Hamstead or the Thames, <br>Yet it is one that Fate condemns<br>Me ever not to hear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have stol’n forth in many a glade<br>Where, at their best in June, <br>Rich nightingales their serenade<br>Lift to the solemn moon<br>So madly that it sometimes stirs<br>Young wanderers mid the briars and burrs<br>To sit incautiously on furze, <br>Enravished by the tune.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The spinney and the wooded hill, <br>The unfrequented lane, <br>Gardens that throb with song until<br>The residents complain, <br>Thou strangers, eager fro the sound, <br>Come trespassing from miles around –<br>These I have visited, and found<br>I always went in vain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O budded quicks, melodious plots, <br>O song so full and free<br>That livens up those favoured spots<br>Often till after three, <br>O groves so thrilled with high romance<br>That, though the whole world gaped askance, <br>I could have sung with half a chance, <br>Why are you mute for me? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">We cannot all see Grecian urns; <br>Not everywhere one meets<br>His Lycidas, howe’er he burns<br>To emulate those feats; <br>But you, immortal bird, art there, <br>A general theme, with charm to spare, <br>On which, for all that I’m aware, <br>I might have rivalled Keats.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But as you please. Unless it’s wet, <br>When the deep shadows fall<br>To-night I’ll give you one chance yet; <br>If lost, there’s no recall.<br>Sing me your best, and I’ll sing you<br>Something in praise that’s really new; <br>If you can do without it, do; <br>It’s one ode less, that’s all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>John KENDALL 1893_1936 Dum-Dum <br>Parody John KEATS – Ode to a Nightingale</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>__________________________ ____<br> <br>Ode to a Turkey</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My head aches, and a gnawing hunger stings<br>My gut, as though I hadn't eaten lunch, <br>But been compelled to witness feasting kings<br>Who gorged themselves on turkey legs and punch.<br>'Tis not because of nature-given bliss, <br>But only due to joy to wander free - <br>That thou, a turkey, tender, fat and young, <br>Do widen my abyss, <br>Make emptier my stomach cavity, <br>Mocking me with disdain in gobble-tongue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O, for a turkey dinner! piping hot, <br>Fresh from the oven, tempting to the sight, <br>Tasting of yams (with others in the pot) , <br>Peas, and cranberry sauce, a glass of Sprite! <br>O for a baker to bake me chocolate chips.<br>To bake me cakes - like Grandma's chocolate cakes, <br>With filling frosting, moist and fresh outside; <br>To hold it to my lips, <br>That I might make the noise a person makes<br>Who on the wings of pure Elysian bliss does ride: <br>Ride out of here, to never know again<br>What thou upon a farm has never known, <br>The cruelty, the hunger, and the sin<br>Here, where the famished fight for every bone; <br>Where I must shake a few last beaded drops<br>Of orange Koolaid from my empty glass; <br>Where but to think is to desire dinner, <br>Or cherry soda pops, <br>Where not a solitary day does pass<br>But that I drool like some unhappy sinner.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ride out of here! for I will leave this place, <br>Unaided by caffeine or cyclamate, <br>But now by fasting...drifting into space<br>(Though I could eat if Mama fixed a plate) : <br>I'm going - I'm going! tender is the ham, <br>And simmers golden dressing in the pan, <br>Crispy and hot - delicious to the taste; <br>However, where I am<br>There isn't even a solitary can<br>Of pork and beans or Hunt's Tomato Paste.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot smell what odors are wafting by, <br>Or what roast duck is stewing in its juice, <br>But, near starvation, guess each apple pie, <br>Each crepe suzette, each dish of chocolate mousse<br>That fairly cries, 'I yearn to be consumed! <br>I long to be devoured with a will, <br>To have my substance seen, selected, chewed, <br>My inner meat exhumed, <br>My captor coddled till he's had his fill, <br>Emits a happy belch, his strength renewed.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gardening, I loosen husk from corn. Some eves<br>I've known such joy to labor at this job.<br>Extracting from the earth these greenish leaves.<br>To have for supper sweet corn on the cob! <br>Now more than ever do I ache to fast, <br>To force those golden kernels to remain, <br>While thou art strutting haughtily about, <br>And shameless, moving past! <br>Still wouldst thou strut, and I have ears in vain... <br>From such a satisfying feast left out.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O thou wast born for death, infernal Bird! <br>I long to take an axe to thy red neck! <br>To sever off they head without a word, <br>Before thy beak can sound another peck! <br>Perchance the very peck that tempted men<br>Who slaved in days gone by for scraps of meat, <br>That made their vacant, growling stomachs ache, <br>That made them yearn within<br>For something tasty, something good to eat...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps a thick prime rib or sirloin steak.<br>Sirloin! the very word is like a bull<br>To force me back into my famished state! <br>Fondue! I would that I were fed and full, <br>Had emptied happily my o'er stuffed plate.<br>Fondue! a stew! thy flesh and feathers pale<br>Out of this era, to another place, <br>Well out of reach, and so is ruined my wish...<br>A deep sigh I exhale.<br>Was this a dream..? 'Twas here, before my face! <br>Oh, heck, forget it! Where's the tuna fish? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Parody KEATS Ode to a Nightingale Duane DODSON 1956_20</div><div style="margin:10px 0">__________________________________ ___</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jonathan+Robin">Jonathan Robin</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=425882" data-title="Rode to a Knight Impale - after John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale de Jonathan Robin" data-description=". :) kindly refer to notes. :) My part aches and a rousing stiffness pains my whole as though viagra I had drank, or loosened up some pheronomic chains split seconds past, endorphined, anticipating prank. 'Tis not through envy that I ask a..."></div> </div> </div>

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