The G, he is a gentle thing
Lovely voice from the hole
That makes the noise that sounds like heaven
With dulcet tones his singing leavened
He’s skinny as a pole

The little “S,” the lyricist
He has the bigger brain
Playing upon the guitar, too
One more of his domains

His lyrics many tales have told
And most are highly ranked
But the relationship unseamed
That is to say, it tanked

The parodist said he would limn
Some lines that would off veer
Far, FAR from the originals
And be much worse, ’twas clear

One OS set in time when life
Recedes into cold dream
That is winter, no grass about
The buds of spring not yet come out
Snow looking like ice cream.

“A Hazy Shade of Winter,” he vowed
He would give it an edge
Of maritime men loud and proud
Not season of the sledge

In fact, two spaces would he fill
It’s a twofer, he’d decide
Some water music would he bag
Not Handel’s: he’d not dare thus brag
But two anent the tide

The first would be about a ship
Upon which the crew groans
Because the captain is goon
Whose whip elicits moans

His name is Bligh; he won’t repose
If slights should meet his eyes
So blood and tears from his men stream
He isn’t very nice

Upon the parodist then dawned
The title that he’d do
Alliterative would be his tropes
And thus the title too
The letter B would be the rule
And to it he would hew

’twas “Baleen’d Bays but Bittern’d” done
[http://www.amiright.com/parody/60s/simonandgarfunkel105.shtml--wouldn't link]
An abundance of B
He bandied ’bout Bligh’s Bounty boat
Bounced on the bounding sea

“More beer!” burped ancient parodist
Before more keys were pressed.
To type sans suds can be a bane
Beer buoys boys on the bounding main,
Beefs up a bulging breast

Around the shore abound the farms
In which small fish are cast
Engorged with food poured to their mouths
Fattened, they’re our repast

Hake could abound where farms are found,
Pilchard could be the one
From this premise, the parodist
Would have titular fun

A title popped up by and by
About how fishers fling
Their lines with hooks far through the air
Await a hake finding the bait there
And going for the thing

For mollusks such emoluments
Are not like piscine loot
Harder to catch, their taste more strong
For them the hook be moot

But pilchard can be caught upon
The curvèd metal boon
Most commonly known as a hook
Sometimes used with lure spoon
And so he now knew what he might
Use to title his tune

Inside his mind the words did spawn
Like fish that in sex seethe
Fell like Niagara off his lip
Out the words he did breathe

“Hake, Sea Snails, and Pilchard,” peeped
The parodist, voice not low
The crew had learned by now that he
Was crazed and wont to crow
Like a lake loon when he’d a tune
That was writ and set to go

Then he stopped for a small repast
While rolling on the ocean
With luck his stomach would not stir
And give a queasy notion
That might in turn cause him to wretch
Prompted by gut commotion

But he chomped on; it was not so
And once the lunch was downed
He would see where he’d next be led
It was not “Homeward Bound”

He then said, it will go this way
An OS of despair
And of things that cannot return
Fake title it would have to earn
For the one from the pair

Though written by the Simon man
No doubt, the lyric boss
It ye all know; the song went so
The takeoff not of loss

“Slip Sliding Away” was how went
The OS, and the faux
Was “Rip-Tiding Away”; the plan
In content was to show

When one is at the beach, a choice
About swims will ensue
If one is sure the rip will run
Best sand-sit with a brew

Before he crashed, dashed off a mash
Based on one of “Big 7”
In which The Boss no Albatross
Sang of, but Jersey heaven

Blinded was the Boss by the light
Rhythm, rapid; tone, wry
(Manfred Mann, too, took a try)
The Parodist’s riff contained “mite”
“Tight,” “right,” and “blight,” as well as “light”
With nautical nod to the plight
Of knotty Captain Bligh