There is an ancient parodist
And he coppeth not a plea
For his long-stay stand on amiright
Of pop-song parody

Of brides, grooms, whores. . .
His tropes are snide
. . .the vile politicians
His jests are pressed upon site’s guests
Those mock-pop clinicians

He postest them with jitt’ry hand
That skippeth key to key
“Go off to land of way-weird tune
Commune with Chucky G.”

He posts them sometimes while getting high
Ingressed hath been a pill
Effects can range from strong to mild
The parodist diggeth thrills

Sometimes he resteth, leaveth ’lone
The keyboard—there it sits
Then back is on that ancient man
The wild-type parodist

Though he’s had beer, his head’s still clear
Chair-seated doth he plop
To go to work, to start the drill
Once he starteth, no stop

Of fun his songs often bereft
And ye see ennui
The mood not bright, brooding not light
Abounding anomie

Plyer and plyer many days
Ill-mannered and nasty tunes
But jests are best if not depressed
Are the readers of these runes

Yet bright are some, devoid of pall
Nonmorose; levity
Indeed in these efforts shows
Also puerility

Yes, jests are best if humor-blessed
And not impaired with fits
So off taketh that ancient man
The pie-eyed parodist

Because a snort glass came, and he
Was tippin’ it; the strong
Liquid was a sore-slaking drink
Into his mouth ’twas gone

With no repast inside him now
No food for hooch’s quelling, so
His head went lighter than a pho
Bowl with the noodles fled
It hit him fast; he was half-gassed
Yet mouthward rye was led

And then came Irish Mist, then sloe
And one more still, a Skol
The ice was nice, made cold his vice
And he was on a roll

A roll, that is, from chair of his
It was a dismal scene
He’d made a dent in carpet. . .sent
Into the weirdest dream

To him ’twas clear: there was no weir
On this ship to be found
His stomach growled, the captain howled
Annoying was his sound

Why was he cross, bark’s barking boss?
Was he like cap. Of Caine?
Or like Fletcher Christian’s ahole
The bailful [sic] Bligh by name

This wasn’t good; this wasn’t neat
Found clownish was the crew
He longed to split, but no terra spit
Was held to be in view

Now his mood down, dim, funk-fit inclined
The barking boss did holler
All he could say was, “Go away!”
Up turned the parodist’s collar

The boss was loud, the bosun prowed
With birch-hard wood, not pine
Appalling sight as day turned night
“Giveth me white [lightning]/moonshine!”

Glock save thee, ancient parodist!
Then he’d find one, shined, embossed
He sighted so the gat did blow
Away barking bark boss