That poem is good, ’tis understood
Although it be lengthy
Through seven parts Coleridge veers
About a ship that no one steers
On a cold yet hellish sea

The parodist could not believe
He once again would hump
Through all seven; twice he had tried
The task and gained sore rump

The Fitz boat neared a Great Lakes dock
But under went the bow
The Bay of Whitefish—nearly there
Then sank like heavy plow

There started forming in his head
Lyrics, but his throat was sere
Into his tankard he poured ale
More hopped-up than the beer
And once his throat was drenched and quenched
His mission became clear

No task was this of the hashtag
Not just 140 long
The character count on would go
From one to seven parts ’twould grow
With no mention of schlong

Then he leaned into the Macbook
Fingers started to fly
Himself he cheered: “Push on, push on!”
And he honed his gimlet eye

Both song and poem about a ship
That pushed on undeterred
Till one beneath the waves did dip
And nothing more was heard

Over it water had run on
Wind whistled overhead
Then the doomed ship near Whitefish Bay
Went down like so much lead

But first a loud and dreadful sound
In wires, like that from throat
Of banshees ere the ship went down
When by wind and waves smote
And all the crew was bound to drown
Indeed, ’twas all she wrote

Upon the whirl where sank the ship
It has spun round and round
Fitz from the mill had become nil
And all the men had drowned

Some of them not much more than boys
But some were grizzled, though
Shipped many a nautical mile
on boats that lakeward go
And some to sea, where they could see
Whales breech from way down below

In the meantime each family
Of each man, left on land
Gathered to pray and to emote
As services were planned.

They grieved, bereaved; a holy man
Gave succor through his vow
To comfort those in any way
Who’d lost kin that ply the bow

The parodist had not been drenched
With beer for some time; he
Requested malt—preferably ale
To prime more parody

Although it was an early hour
He still felt his throat burn
But there was no booze in the hold
So slowly he did turn

He did not spy a single man
At whom he could then screech
About how dreadfully thirsty
He was ’neath sun, upon the sea
He muttered, “Life’s a beach!”

He then noticed: “I’m on the floor
And ’tis upward I stare
I am not rolling on the tide
I am exactly, where?”
He thought that he heard a doorbell
Waft to his ears through air

He realized now he had been
Not stuck on a ship at sea
Passed out after too many belts
Stuck in reverie

He eructed a taste of yeast
And rose unsteadily
But wanting to get back to work
On a great parody

Oh, he meant not a magnum work
(The pun slipped fast away)
“Great” in the sense it never ends
Or so it may seem when he sends
It off amiright way

So he would tell stories of swells
And riding on waves’ crests
“Screw the doorbell! I’ll let it knell
I have no time for guests!”

No time for guests; time for high-test
He sauntered down the hall
And had himself too many glugs
Resulting in a fall

For parodist, out went the lights
Back was he on the floor
With reverie again his guest
He sailed the seas once more

He really oughtn’t to get drunk
On liquid made from corn
In his head set atop his trunk
A tacky tack was born
Pass on parodies, puns—the plan
Pen panoply of porn!