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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=426120" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Pillage Hangman - Parody LONGFELLOW - The Village Blacksmith</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under a spreading chestnut tree<br>The village smithy stands; <br>The Smith, a mighty man is he, <br>With large and sinewy hands; <br>And the muscles of his brawny arms<br>Are strong as iron bands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His hair is crisp, and black, and long, <br>His face is like the tan; <br>His brow is wet with honest sweat, <br>He earns whate'er he can<br>And looks the whole world in the face<br>For he owes not any man.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Week in, week out, from morn till night, <br>You can hear his bellows blow; <br>You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, <br>With measured beat and slow, <br>Like a sexton ringing the village bell, <br>When the evening sun is low.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And children coming home from school<br>Look in at the open door; <br>They love to see the flaming furge, <br>And hear the bellows roar, <br>And catch the burning sparks that fly<br>Like chaff from a threshing floor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He goes on Sunday to the church<br>and sits among his boys; <br>He hears the parson pray and preach.<br>He hears his daughter's voice<br>singing in the village choir, <br>And it makes his heart rejoice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It sounds to him like her mother's voice, <br>Singing in Paradise! <br>He needs must think of her once more, <br>How in the grave she lies; <br>And with his hard, rough hand he wipes<br>A tear out of his eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Toiling, -rejoicing, -sorrowing, <br>Onward through life he goes; <br>Each morning sees some task begin, <br>Each evening sees it close; <br>Something attempted, something done, <br>Has earned a night's repose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend<br>For the lesson thou hast taught! <br>Thus at the flaming forge of life<br>Our fortunes must be wrought; <br>Thus on its sounding anvil shaped<br>Each burning deed and thought! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW <br>___________________<br>The Pillage Hangman</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the heading ‘Sentence Just’<br>the spreading news informed<br>the sceptics, partisans, non plussed, <br>that past are Desert Storms<br>as dust to dust returns – which warmed<br>hearts though Bagdad’s gone bust.<br> <br>Fair trial spun to election eve<br>fell on deaf ears for most, -<br>who fooled was, and who would deceive, <br>writ up by Fox, Times, Post.<br>Will Sauron Saddam’s idle boast<br>lie still with few to grieve? <br> <br>Two lawyers for defence before<br>their leader met their fate, <br>but Justice, blind, the clothing tore<br>from strangers at the gate –<br>No mercy to anticipate -<br>- the same make, break the law.<br> <br>Under a leafless green zone tree<br>the curdled hangman stands<br>the Kurd, a narrow man is he, <br>with Halliburton hands; <br>his captive's Chaineyed iron bands, <br>prey oily policy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Five times a day, on Friday, pray, <br>lost leader homes destroyed, <br>his motto - ‘bag a dad a day’ -<br>he honestly enjoyed.<br>The next in line – he who employed<br>our hangman of today? <br> <br>It sounds to him his mother's voice, <br>singing in Paradise <br>inspires jihad - the gravest choice<br>is spurred by need for rice, - <br>no tears, don’t think about it twice -<br>crossed keyword calls … rejoice! <br> <br>The gibbet like the tree itself<br>was built from root to crown <br>by contract – golden handshake pelf<br>for 'count…Tree' Root and Brown.<br>Soon both unChaineyed tumbling down<br>will fall from well oiled shelf.<br> <br>The Bushy hair once crisp, and black, <br>turns grey, his Texas tan, <br>his brow, flow wet with nervous sweat, <br>he steals whate’er he can.<br>All bet his life span also ran -<br>regrets may clan beget.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though Florida's election tags<br>nudged Bush ahead, his lies<br>came home to roost in body bags -<br>eight thousand sightless eyes -<br>no Gore, yet gore, rags, mo[u]rning cries! <br>the irony: time lags.<br> <br>Weak kneed, needs strong, from morn till night, <br>one hears from minaret<br>the call resound, unsound ‘tis found<br>on Sunni days and wet.<br>I RACK, I RAN - the scene is set<br>last watch will be unwound.<br> <br>Under a spreading dark chador<br>wild women come and go, <br>in sable robe all set their store<br>while wailings overflow<br>from deep despair and worldly care<br>with fresh, sectarian gore.<br> <br>Some children coming home from school<br>looked on sad, damnèd beard, <br>the burning Bush tries keeping cool<br>as army highly geared<br>prepares partitionned future feared <br>Kurd, Sunni, Shia ghoul.<br> <br>Some kids, from segregated school, <br>in hate stared, some in awe, <br>some spat, some sat a'wilting, drooled, <br>while others cried for more<br>Democracy – which means restore<br>the Sharia harsh and cruel.<br> <br>Some dream of mortars falling nigh, <br>some hear the cannon roar, <br>some catch the burning sparks that fly<br>from mass destruction’s maw, <br>some - scattered chaff from threshing floor -<br>lie silent, others cry.<br> <br>Some dream of martyrdom enshrined, <br>not candle, book, and bell, <br>where blind shall never lead the blind<br>where crosses signal hell, <br>where all bid Blair, Brown, Bush farewell<br>with ninety lashes signed.<br> <br>Toiling, rejoicing, - sorrowing, <br>onward through life each goes; <br>Each morning sees sore borrowing<br>each evening, ‘seize, foreclose! ’<br>One wonders what earns night’s repose<br>with hangman’s turn to swing? <br> <br>Under the spotlit mobile phone<br>both shame and blame were found, <br>with insults hurled in taunting tone<br>before he hit the ground.<br>Excuses lame all must bemoan<br>sound judgement proves unsound.<br> <br>Thanks, thanks to you, true dangling friend<br>for the lesson you have taught <br>as at life’s flaming forge you bend <br>the noose where mortals, caught, <br>see fortunes fall whose rise they thought <br>would time and tide transcend.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As time and rhyme spin on we see<br>elections drawing near, <br>some turn towards posterity<br>campaigns all out of gear, <br>all ask what judgement hangs next year <br>no Hillary set free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though Surge pushed back Bush judgement day<br>it cannot stem Fate's tide, <br>'divide and rule' - Time's fool in play -<br>will end to coincide<br>with Oil major's cash margins wide, <br>Lebanese disarray.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is no U.S. army left<br>to flush from Myanmar<br>the Junta of ethics bereft, <br>to China's rising star<br>too hitched, which rescue teams would bar, <br>fork tongue and palate cleft, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">While oil nears U.S. dollars four<br>a gallon many feel<br>a pinch which cuts them to the core, <br>foreclosing options steel.<br>Spin pent_a_gon[e] would lies conceal<br>but most blame D.C. more.<br> <br>From running water fresh deprived<br>Iraqis struggle on<br>as some are tortured, others knived, <br>as those in Washington<br>impeachement fear, chicks roost return, <br>J.A.G's duly tried.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Guantanamo and Ghraib have led<br>Habeus Corpus suspended, <br>while Clinton dreams of White House bed<br>phone rings at 3 - dream ended<br>by superdelegates suspended<br>on Barack's lips ahead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's back to barracks! Clinton, Bush, <br>by history entombed, <br>yet outlook's poor, - no future cush -<br>for victory assumed<br>turns turtle, global warming [g]loomed <br>can greet no winning push.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Christ, Moslem, Jew, three creeds descend<br>which civil war’s strung taut, <br>no longer arab, kurd, may blend<br>as populace distraught <br>finds hammer, anvil, to book brought, -<br>like rhyme drawn to due end. <br> </div><div style="margin:10px 0">© Jonathan Robin Parody written 10 November 2006 and 20 January 2007, revised and expanded 9 May 2008 for previous version see below followed by the original by Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW 1807_1882 The Village Blacksmith and other parodies</div><div style="margin:10px 0">_____________________</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Pillage Hangman initial version</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the heading ‘Sentence Just’<br>the spreading news informs<br>the sceptics, partisans, non plussed, <br>that past are Desert Storms<br>as dust to dust returns – which warms<br>hearts though Bagdad’s gone bust.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fair trial spun to election eve<br>fell on deaf ears for most, -<br>who fooled was, and who would deceive, <br>writ up by Fox, Times, Post.<br>Will Sauron Saddam’s idle boast<br>lie still with few to grieve? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Two lawyers for defense before<br>their leader met there fate, <br>but Justice, blind, the clothing tore<br>from strangers at the gate –<br>No mercy we anticipate -<br>- the same make, break the law.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under a leafless green zone tree<br>the curdled hangman stands<br>the Kurd, a narrow man is he, <br>with Halliburton hands; <br>his prisoner, bound in iron bands, <br>sways, prey of U.S. polity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The gibbet like the tree itself<br>Is built from root to crown <br>by contract – golden handshake pelf<br>for count…tree Root and Brown.<br>Soon both unChaineyed tumbling down<br>will fall from well oiled shelf.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His hair is crisp, and black, and short, <br>his face is like the tan, <br>his brow flows wet with nervous sweat, <br>he steals whate’er he can.<br>All bet his life span also ran -<br>regrets may clan beget.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Weak kneed, needs strong, from morn till night, <br>one hears from minaret<br>the call resound, unsound ‘tis found<br>on Sunni days and wet.<br>I rack, I ran - the scene is set<br>as last watch is unwound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under a spreading dark chador<br>wild women come and go, <br>in sable robe all set their store<br>while wailings overflow<br>from deep despair and worldly care<br>with fresh, sectarian gore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The children coming home from school<br>look on sad, damnèd beard, <br>the burning Bush tries keeping cool<br>as army highly geared<br>prepares partitionned future feared <br>Kurd, Sunni, Shiite ghoul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some children coming home from school<br>in hate stare, some in awe, <br>some spit, some wilt, some sit, some drool, <br>while others cry for more<br>Democracy – which means restore<br>the Sharia harsh and cruel.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some dream of mortars falling nigh, <br>some hear the cannon roar, <br>some catch the burning sparks that fly<br>from mass destruction’s maw, <br>some scattered chaff from threshing floor <br>lie silent, others cry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some dream of martyrdom enshrined, <br>not candle, book, and bell, <br>where blind shall never lead the blind<br>where crosses signal hell, <br>where all bid Blair and Bush farewell<br>with ninety lashes signed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Five times a day, on Friday, pray, <br>lost leader homes destroyed, <br>his motto - ‘bag a dad a day’ -<br>he honestly enjoyed.<br>The next in line – he who employed<br>our hangman of today? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It sounds to him his mother's voice, <br>singing in Paradise <br>inspires jihad - the gravest choice<br>is spurred by need for rice, - <br>no tears, don’t think about it twice -<br>the keyword shines … rejoice! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Toiling, rejoicing, - sorrowing, <br>onward through life each goes; <br>Each morning sees sore borrowing<br>each evening, ‘seize, foreclose! ’<br>One wonders what earns night’s repose<br>with hangman’s turn to swing? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the spotlit mobile phone<br>both shame and blame are found, <br>with insults hurled in taunting tone<br>before he hit the ground.<br>Excuses lame all must bemoan<br>sound judgement proves unsound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thanks, thanks to you, true dangling friend<br>for the lesson you have taught <br>as at life’s flaming forge you bend <br>the noose where mortals, caught, <br>see fortunes fall whose rise they thought <br>would time and tide transcend.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Christ, Moslem, Jew, three creeds descend<br>which civil war’s strung taut, <br>no longer arab, kurd, may blend<br>as populace distraught <br>finds hammer, anvil, to book brought, -<br>like rhyme drawn to due end. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">© Jonathan Robin Parody written 10 November 2006 and 20 January 2007<br>Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW 1807_1882 The Village Blacksmith</div><div style="margin:10px 0">_________________</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Die Walküre</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under a spreading forest tree<br>The house of Hunding stands: <br>The host a hasty man is he<br>And heavy with his hands; <br>It’s pretty horrible to be<br>Pursued by Hundings bands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But this is Siegmund’s fate, who turns<br>Up at his very door; <br>For Hunding’s captive wife he yearns, <br>It’s mutual – furthermore, <br>Before the evening’s passed he learns<br>He’s met the girl before.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">While hubby settles for the night, <br>Prepared at dawn to clash, <br>Sieglinde shows a sword stuck tight<br>Into the sheltering ash; <br>To pull it out is Siegmund’s right! <br>He does – and then they dash.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meanwhile, above, domestic strife<br>Attends the gods’ debate, <br>For Wotan gave the pair their life<br>And longs to bless their fate; <br>But Fricka, Archetypal Wife, <br>Upholds the married state.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So winged Brünnhilde erst rehearsed<br>Young Siegmund’s life to save, <br>Is told: ‘Let Hunding do his worst! <br>His foe is in the grave.’<br>But rashly she prefers the first<br>Instructions Wotan gave …</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas! His spear, with fatal force, <br>Shatters the ash-hewn sword; <br>This leaves pour Siegmund dead, of course, <br>And Poor Sieglinde floored; <br>But, hoisted on Brünnhilde’s horse, <br>To rally she’s implored.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For since the lovely girl’s in whelp, <br>To cheer her up is vital, <br>Brünnhilde’s sisters aren’t much help<br>(Valkyrie of the title) : <br>They merely rush around and yelp, <br>Awaiting crime’s requital.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, poor Brünnhilde’s forced to pay<br>By her impassioned sire; <br>He will not take her life away<br>But lights an instant fire! <br>Inside its circle she must stay, <br>Asleep where non can spy’er.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Intruders won’t disturb her kip, <br>Unless Sieglinde’s son –<br>If brn – between the flames might slip …<br>She clearly sees the fun<br>Involved in this relationship –<br>A most peculiar one.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But what is it to us if aunts<br>Their nephew would embrace? <br>And anyway, as yet the chance<br>Is distant; slow the pace<br>Of unrelenting circumstance<br>That shadows Wotan’s race.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mary HOLTBY Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW – The Village Blacksmith and Die Walküre</div><div style="margin:10px 0">_________________</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The Village Boyhood</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beneath the village chestnut<br>The village boyhood stands<br>With bright and eager faces <br>And filthy knees and hands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Their stones and sticks and faggots<br>They cast them heaven-high<br>To fall in various places<br>And wound the passers-by.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The prickly treasures tumble, <br>The shining spoils are shown, <br>And each one clouts his neighbour<br>And calls the prize his own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They pierce the taken trophies<br>That have no lure for age, <br>And string them for the contests<br>That once I used to wage.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The battles I engaged in <br>I now shall fight no more, <br>I muse on other chestnuts<br>That fell from boughs of yore; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Till sinks the autumn twilight<br>And distant fields grow gray, <br>The fun, the filth, the fighting<br>Are over for the day; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Till sinks the autumn twilight<br>And lonely on the lea<br>And looking somewhat battered<br>Remains the unconkered tree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Edmund Valpy KNOX 1881_1971 <br>Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW The Village Blacksmith<br>The Shopping Mall Dentist</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the blinking fluorescent lights<br>The drunken Dentist weaves; <br>A drunken rube in rubber tights, <br>whose liquid lunch upheaves; <br>His grin is one of many fights<br>Left hollow by tavern thieves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His hair recedes on balding head, <br>His face a weathered prune; <br>His brow protrudes like swollen dead, <br>He hasn't been paid since June; <br>He ducks his creditors with mounting dread, <br>He owes then all but the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Day in day out from dawn till dusk, <br>you can hear his patients scream; <br>Like a wino wearing fermenting musk, <br>The nausea he creates is supreme; <br>And if you should see his one good tusk, <br>You'll hope that it's all a bad dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His techs crawling in from the window sill<br>They nosily peer in his room; <br>They love to see his sparking drill, <br>Where his patients await with gloom; <br>Like Joan Of Arc waiting to grill, <br>And Pompeii awaiting its doom. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He goes on Mondays to the track<br>And bets on ponies to show; <br>He hears the announcer suddenly hack, <br>“The horses are ready to go! ”<br>Martini in hand the race off with a crack, <br>His horse wouldn’t run with a tow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He’s lost everything but his boxer shorts<br>And ends up in jail on a frame; <br>He met one of his old drinking cohorts, <br>But couldn’t remember his name; <br>It turned out the guy was a pick pocket of sorts<br>who worked the crowd and fingered the dentist with blame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Extracting – drilling - drinking, <br>Onward through patients he wailed; <br>Every morning without even thinking, <br>Some poor slob’s tongue he impaled; <br>When morale of his patients was sinking, <br>He'd gas them until they were nailed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thanks, but no thanks my hammered friend<br>For offering to slaughter my tooth; <br>Because at the spit bowl near the end, <br>I reckon I realize the truth; <br>You’re more concerned with Beefeater’s gin<br>With an olive and splash of vermouth! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Author Unknown Shy Lady Laurie 2001<br>Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW – The Village Blacksmith<br> <br>_____________<br>The Village Burglar</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under a spreading gooseberry bush the village burglar lies, <br>The burglar is a hairy man with whiskers round his eyes<br>And the muscles of his brawny arms keep off the little flies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He goes on Sunday to the church to hear the Parson shout.<br>He puts a penny in the plate and takes a pound note out<br>And drops a conscience-stricken tear in case he is found out.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Parody UN known Author 0259 Longfellow The Village Blacksmith <br>___________</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Village Hangman</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The hangman's tryst with dreaded death <br>Comes as an alarum clangs; <br>He finds law's business very grim - <br>The human's horrid pangs! <br>Date with eternity on a limb <br>Is set - thy sinner hangs! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>BRODIE Richard Allen 1942_20xx Anagram Parody Longfellow The <br>Village Blacksmith</div><div style="margin:10px 0">_____________</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Village Beauty </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under a spreading Gainsborough hat<br>The village beauty stands, <br>A maiden very fair to see, <br>With tiny feet and hands, <br>As stately, too, as if she owned<br>The squire’s house and lands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her hair is golden brown and long, <br>Her brow is like the snow, <br>Her cheeks are like the rosy flush<br>Left by the sunset’s glow, <br>She greets the lads with a careless look, <br>She’s the village belle, you know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Week in, week out, at morn and night, <br>The young miller comes each day; <br>“’Tis the nearest way to town, ” he says, <br>But ‘tis rather out of his way, <br>And every night he seems to have<br>Plenty of time to stay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And children, coming home from school, <br>Look in at the door and know<br>That the handsome fellow by her side<br>Is pretty Nellie’s beau, <br>Who can hardly tear himself away<br>When he finds its time to go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He goes on Sundays to the Church, <br>And sits in his proper pew, <br>But his eyes wander off to the transept near, <br>Where he sees a charming view, <br>For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best, <br>With her bonnet of palest blue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He hears the parson pray and preach<br>With his outward ear alone, <br>For he only listens for Nellie’s voice, <br>And responds in a dreamy tone, <br>And when she smiles at the carpenter near, <br>He can’t suppress a groan.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Despairing, hoping, fearing, <br>Onward thro’ life he goes; <br>Each morning he sees Nellie, <br>And each evening, at its close; <br>She even haunts him sleeping, <br>And disturbs his night’s repose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, <br>For the lesson thou hast taught; <br>Thus at the flirting time of life<br>Our fortunes may be wrought, <br>So we cannot be too careful<br>Over every word and thought! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Author Unknown pseud L.P. The Dunheved Mirror Cornwall March 1880 <br>Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW The Village Blacksmith</div><div style="margin:10px 0">_______________</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Splendid Bankrupt</div><div style="margin:10px 0">BEING A HINT TO OUR LEGISLATORS AND A REMINDER TO THE OFFICIAL RECEIVER </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under its spreading bankruptcy <br>The village mansion stands; <br>Its lord, a mighty man is he, <br>With large, broad-acred lands; <br>And the laws that baulk his creditors <br>Are strong as iron bands. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">His laugh is free and loud and long, <br>His dress is spick-and-span; <br>He pays no debt with honest sweat, <br>He keeps whate'er he can, <br>And stares the whole world in the face, <br>For he fears not any man. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Week in, week out, from morn till night, <br>Prince-like he runs the show; <br>And a round of social gaieties <br>Keeps things from getting slow <br>As the agent of his wife, of course, <br>His credit's never low. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">His children, coming back from school, <br>Bless their progenitor, <br>Who's ruffling at the yearly rate <br>Of fifteen thou. or more, <br>Nor care they how his victims fly <br>To the workhouse open door. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He goes on Sunday to the church <br>With all whom he employs, <br>To hear the parson pray and preach, <br>Condemning stolen joys; <br>It falls like water off his back <br>His conscience ne'er annoys. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Scheming, promoting, squandering, <br>Onward through life he goes; <br>Each morning sees some ' deal ' begun, <br>Each evening sees it close; <br>Some coup attempted, some one ' done, ' <br>Has earned a night's repose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thanks, thanks, to thee, my worthy friend, <br>For the lesson thou hast taught! <br>Thus in the busy City life <br>Our fortunes must be wrought; <br>Thus does the Splendid Bankrupt thrive <br>While honest fools get nought! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Arthur A. SYKES</div><div style="margin:10px 0">___________</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Village Idiot</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the chewing chestnut mare<br>the village idiot stands.<br>(The idiot's height is normal, but<br>the horse is forty hands.<br>Its mass/ bone-section ratio<br>requires great iron bands</div><div style="margin:10px 0">like splints in place along its legs, <br>so it stands beneath the strain.<br>Its brow is wet with equine sweat, <br>unless it may be rain.<br>It looks the whole world in the face.<br>It has a horse's brain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Week in, week out, from morn till night<br>you can hear it puff and blow.<br>It has such trouble standing up<br>it cannot really go.<br>The locals, out of sympathy, <br>prefer to call it 'slow'.) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And children coming home from school<br>look in at the open door.<br>They see the idiot standing there<br>all bruised and hurt and sore, <br>for every time the mare moves foot<br>it kicks him to the floor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He goes on Sunday to the church, <br>and sits among the boys.<br>He hears the parson rave and rant; <br>to him it is just noise.<br>He smiles as children pull his hair<br>and hit him with their toys.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It feels to him like his mother's hand<br>coming from Paradise! <br>He thinks of lying on the floor, <br>kicked as he tried to rise, <br>and how her hard rough hand would wipe<br>consciousness from his eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gazing - rejoicing - sorrowing, <br>onward through life he goes; <br>each morning sees some task begin, <br>like trying to count his toes; <br>a hopeless task when, to this day, <br>he cannot count his nose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, <br>for bringing with such force<br>the lesson that the villagers<br>will hurt without remorse<br>one of their own with weaknesses, <br>but are kindly to a horse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Parody UN known Author 0261<br>Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW The Village Blacksmith<br>_______________</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Village Blacksmith as He Is</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the spreading chestnut tree<br>The village blacksmith stands<br>The smith an awful cad is he<br>With very dirty hands<br>For keepers and the rural police<br>He doesn’t care a hang<br>He swears and fights, and whops his wife<br>Gets drunk whene’er he can<br>In point of fact, our village smith’s<br>A very awful man.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He goes on Sundays to the pub<br>With other festive boys<br>When drinking beer and goes of rum<br>His precious time employs<br>Till he gets drunk, and going home<br>He makes no end of noise<br>Then, with his poor half-starving wife<br>He in a passion flies<br>He pulls her by the hair, from off<br>The bed on which she lies<br>And kicks her round the room, and says<br>Bad things about her eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Smoking, soaking, bullying<br>Onward through life he goes<br>Each morning sees a blackened eye<br>Or else a broken nose<br>I fear that within the County Goal<br>Calcraft* his life will close<br>Thanks, thanks to thee, thou black blacksmith<br>For the lessons thou hast taught<br>By Calcraft, or his deputy<br>I never will be caught<br>And to that end I’ll never do<br>The thing I hadn’t ought.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* Calcraft was the official executioner from 1829 to 1879<br>pseud Figaro Programme 5 February 1873 <br>Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW The Village Blacksmith<br>______________</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Potted Poems Longfellow</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My name is Norval. On the Grampian hills<br>The village smithy stands; <br>His breast is bare, his matted hair<br>Was wrecked on the pitiless Goodwin sands, <br>And by him sported on the green<br>His little grandchild, Wilhelmine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Author Unknown 0168<br>Parody Henry Wadsworth LONGFELLOW – The Village Blacksmith<br>and Parody William WORDSWORTH</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>
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<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=426120" data-title="The Pillage Hangman - Parody LONGFELLOW - The Village Blacksmith de Jonathan Robin" data-description="Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands; 
The Smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 
His face is like the t..."></div>
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