Parody+of+a+poem

=Ode to a Nightingale, by John Keats (1819)=

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, - That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain - To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep? 

=Ode to A Turkey, by Duane Dodson = = =  1 My head aches, and a gnawing hunger stings My gut, as though I hadn't eaten lunch, But been compelled to witness feasting kings Who gorged themselves on turkey legs and punch: 'Tis not because of nature-given bliss, But only due to joy to wander free-- That thou, a turkey, tender, fat and young, Do widen my abyss, Make emptier my stomach cavity, Mocking me with disdain in gobble-tongue. 2 O, for a turkey dinner! piping hot, Fresh from the oven, tempting to the sight, Tasting of yams (with others in the pot), Peas, and cranberry sauce, a glass of Sprite! O for a baker to bake me chocolate chips. To bake me cakes--like Grandma's chocolate cakes, With filling frosting, moist and fresh outside; To hold it to my lips, That I might make the noise a person makes Who on the wings of pure Elysian bliss does ride: 3 Ride out of here, to never know again What thou upon a farm has never known, The cruelty, the hunger, and the sin Here, where the famished fight for every bone; Where I must shake a few last beaded drops Of orange Koolaid from my empty glass; Where but to think is to desire dinner, Or cherry soda pops, Where not a solitary day does pass But that I drool like some unhappy sinner. 4 Ride out of here! for I will leave this place, Unaided by caffeine or cyclamate, But now by fasting...drifting into space (Though I could eat if Mama fixed a plate): I'm going--I'm going! tender is the ham, And simmers golden dressing in the pan, Crispy and hot--delicious to the taste; However, where I am There isn't even a solitary can Of pork and beans or Hunt's Tomato Paste. 5 I cannot smell what odors are wafting by, Or what roast duck is stewing in its juice, But, near starvation, guess each apple pie, Each crepe suzette, each dish of chocolate mousse That fairly cries, "I yearn to be consumed! I long to be devoured with a will, To have my substance seen, selected, chewed, My inner meat exhumed, My captor coddled till he's had his fill, Emits a happy belch, his strength renewed." 6 Gardening, I loosen husk from corn. Some eves I've known such joy to labor at this job. Extracting from the earth these greenish leaves. To have for supper sweet corn on the cob! Now more than ever do I ache to fast, To force those golden kernels to remain, While thou art strutting haughtily about, And shameless, moving past! Still wouldst thou strut, and I have ears in vain... From such a satisfying feast left out. 7 O thou wast born for death, infernal Bird! I long to take an axe to thy red neck! To sever off they head without a word, Before thy beak can sound another peck! Perchance the very peck that tempted men Who slaved in days gone by for scraps of meat, That made their vacant, growling stomachs ache, That made them yearn within For something tasty, something good to eat... Perhaps a thick prime rib or sirloin steak. 8 Sirloin! the very word is like a bull To force me back into my famished state! Fondue! I would that I were fed and full, Had emptied happily my o'er stuffed plate. Fondue! a stew! thy flesh and feathers pale Out of this era, to another place, Well out of reach, and so is ruined my wish... A deep sigh I exhale. Was this a dream..? 'Twas here, before my face! Oh, heck, forget it! Where's the tuna fish? 