now it does it now
.-/.-./-/.-/.-./-/
Yes, this is a morse code sonnet.
This is a parody of the Beatles Song “Yesterday”
based on the recent events
in “For Better or for Worse”
as snarked here:
http://joshreads.com/
Wedding Day
Wedding day
Elly has insipid puns to say.
There are trains with which John longs to play.
And they believe
in wedding days.
Cloyingly,
they both like that loser Anthony.
Liz will settle for eternity.
Her wedding day
starts cloyingly.
Liz had higher goals
than this role she chose to play.
But she shows restraint
like a saint on wedding day.
Wedding day
Lawrence did the flowers since he’s gay.
Gordon’s staring at the relish trays.
Oh they’re all here
on wedding day.
See Liz blankly glow
as she throws her life away.
No more roadside bliss
just a kiss on wedding day.
Wedding day
Grandpa Jim’s life slowly fades away
He’d still have a boxcar left to say
if he could speak
on wedding day.
Different Animal Verses from Swinging on a Star as sung by Bing Crosby (in priestly garb) in “Going My Way”
(chorus remains the same)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iTUKHMlbYGA
Would you like to swing on a star
carry moonbeams home in a jar
be better off than you are
or would you rather be a rat?
A rat is an animal that hides in a hole
to reproduce is his only goal
In the dark he scurries all his short life-span
gathering crumbs so he can feed his clan.
But if you like to run around like that
you might grow up to be a rat
Would you like to swing on a star
carry moonbeams home in a jar
be better off than you are
or would you rather be a bear?
A bear is an animal with big furry paws
he wakes up when winter snows have thawed
He scarfs down berries till his belly’s fed
but then he yawns and goes right back to bed.
If life between long dreams is all you dare
you might grow up to be a bear.
Would you like to swing on a star
carry moonbeams home in a jar
be better off than you are
or would you rather be a skunk?
A skunk is an animal whose body can spray
a musk with an interesting bouquet.
He side-steps trouble but he’s all alone
’cause no one wants to smell his rank cologne.
But if you like to stew in your own funk
you might grow up to be a skunk.
And all the monkeys aren’t in a zoo
every day you’ll meet quite a few
so you see it’s all up to you.
You could be better then you are
you could be swinging on a star.
And here’s a parody using comic strips instead of animals:
Would you like cartoons to be smart,
Duly notice humorous parts,
See somewhat passable art,
Or would you rather read Mark Trail?
Mark Trail is a naturalist who lives in the woods
where squirrels grow much bigger than they should.
When poachers steal a friend of his’ pet bear
his right hook knocks away their facial hair.
And if you like a plot that’s pretty stale
you might decide to read Mark Trail.
Would you like cartoons to be smart,
Duly notice humorous parts,
See somewhat passable art,
Or would you rather read Gil Thorp?
Gil Thorp coaches Milford boys at Varsity sports
they toss balls as Marty Moon reports.
Explained inscrutably with play by play
disjointed figures pose in awkward ways
But if you like your limbs and lingo warped
You might decide to read Gil Thorp
Would you like cartoons to be smart,
Duly notice humorous parts,
See somewhat passable art,
Or would you rather see the Keanes?
A Keane is a melon-head that makes awful puns
their circus is anything but fun
As Bil stares blankly at his noxious brood
they blithely mangle pointless platitudes
But if you lived through 1917
you might not mind the family Keane.
It looks like Funky found a new lump
Marvin took a big stinky dump
old Ed Crankshaft acts like a grump
I’m not demanding high class art
just give me something somewhat smart.
The crow can wait for man to fill
his pockets with the shiny thrill
of progress. Never will he eat
or drink these burdens to his feet
and flightless fingers. Never will
he hold them near, except to spill
them on the road when harsh winds chill
his skin. Upon a branching seat
the crow can wait
for man’s voice to cry out a shrill
unbending howl when heros kill
his sons. A bloodless torment beats
within his chest. He prays to meet
them on an unfamiliar hill.
The crow can wait.
For longer than a hundred years,
Jack prayed Atropos stay her shears
and fair Lachesis measure thread
until he died asleep in bed
but never asked that Clotho spin
a day that wasn’t frayed and thin.
The orchids bloom, yellow and bright.
There are no tears, no insect bites,
no wilted edges curling low.
Symmetry thrives. The petals glow
like keyholes full of morning light
as they creep edgewise up a slight
gray trunk. Roots reach between the night
wide gouges. And where no leaves grow
the orchids bloom.
The lifeless branches crouch in tight
bundles of stumped expansion. Might
emerges. Buds must spread, must flow
through hollow spaces where a slow
release of emptiness ignites
the orchid’s bloom.
The moon is full of stories told
in grandfatherly rumbles as it holds
night in its crescent lap. You heard
the tale before, although the words
were different then. But eyebrows rolled
above the rising dawn bold
and gray the same as it unfolds
today. The arching backs that purred
“The moon is full
of shit.” now lick at their assholed
dissatisfactions on an old
concentric oval rug. Obscured
by dust on the lampstand, a blurred
photograph stares beyond its golden
frame. And as the stars grow cold
the moon is full.
My name is written on a bare
scratch in the ground. And it is there
I shed this husked identity
of slithering symbols – under trees
that form time-solid. Declare
me dead. Intone a tomb. Prepare
to chant my name in air
where it may wither silently.
My name is written
by lifeless hands. The words now tear
their essence from the earth and share
the brutal strength and savagery
of Nature. I died. And the me
that once was weak is buried where
my name is written.
