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Best Famous Parody Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Parody poems. This is a select list of the best famous Parody poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Parody poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of parody poems.

Search for the best famous Parody poems, articles about Parody poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Parody poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

A Parody on “A Psalm of Life”

 Life is real, life is earnest, 
And the shell is not its pen –
“Egg thou art, and egg remainest”
Was not spoken of the hen.
Art is long and Time is fleeting, Be our bills then sharpened well, And not like muffled drums be beating On the inside of the shell.
In the world’s broad field of battle, In the great barnyard of life, Be not like those lazy cattle! Be a rooster in the strife! Lives of roosters all remind us, We can make our lives sublime, And when roasted, leave behind us, Hen tracks on the sands of time.
Hen tracks that perhaps another Chicken drooping in the rain, Some forlorn and henpecked brother, When he sees, shall crow again.


by Ezra Pound | |

Ancient Music

 Winter is icummen in, 
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us, An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver, Damn you, sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm, So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.
A parody of the Anglo-Saxon poem, Cuckoo Song


by A E Housman | |

O Why Do You Walk (a Parody)

 O why do you walk through the fields in boots,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody shoots,
Why do you walk through the fields in boots,
When the grass is soft as the breast of coots
And shivering-sweet to the touch?


More great poems below...

by G K Chesterton | |

The Donkey

 When forests walked and fishes flew 
And figs grew upon thorn, 
Some moment when the moon was blood, 
Then, surely, I was born.
With monstrous head and sickening bray And ears like errant wings— The devil's walking parody Of all four-footed things: The battered outlaw of the earth Of ancient crooked will; Scourge, beat, deride me—I am dumb— I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour— One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout around my head And palms about my feet.


by Philip Levine | |

Berenda Slough

 Earth and water without form, 
change, or pause: as if the third 
day had not come, this calm norm 
of chaos denies the Word.
One sees only a surface pocked with rushes, the starved clumps pressed between water and space -- rootless, perennial stumps fixed in position, entombed in nothing; it is too late to bring forth branches, to bloom or die, only the long wait lies ahead, a parody of perfection.
Who denies this is creation, this sea constant before the stunned eye's insatiable gaze, shall find nothing he can comprehend.
Here the mind beholds the mind as it shall be in the end.


by Kenneth Patchen | |

When We Were Here Together

 when we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one
another.
A bit of grass held between the teeth for a moment, bright hair on the wind.
What we were we did not know, nor even the grass or the flame of hair turning to ash on the wind.
But they lied about that.
From the beginning they lied.
To the child, telling him that there was somewhere anger against him, and a hatred against him, and the only reason for his being in the world.
But never did they tell him that the only evil and danger was in themselves; that they alone were the prisoners and the betrayers; that they - they alone - were responsible for what was being done in the world.
And they told the child to starve and to kill the child that was within him; for only by doing this could he become a useful and adjusted member of the community which they had prepared for him.
And this time, alas, they did not lie.
And with the death of the child was born a thing that had neither the character of a man nor the character of a child, but was a horrible and monstrous parody of the two; and it is in this world now that the flesh of man’s spirit lies twisted and despoiled under the indifferent stars.
When we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one another.
O green the bit of warm grass between our teeth.
O beautiful the hair of our mortal goddess on the indifferent wind.


by Maggie Estep | |

Sex Goddess

 I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE 
so don't mess with me 
I've got a big bag full of SEX TOYS 
and you can't have any
'cause they're all mine
'cause I'm
the SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.
"Hey," you may say to yourself, "who the hell's she tryin' to kid, she's no sex goddess," But trust me, I am if only for the fact that I have the unabashed gall to call myself a SEX GODDESS, I mean, after all, it's what so many of us have at some point thought, we've all had someone who worshipped our filthy socks and barked like a dog when we were near giving us cause to pause and think: You know, I may not look like much but deep inside, I am a SEX GODDESS.
Only we'd never come out and admit it publicly well, you wouldn't admit it publicly but I will because I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.
I haven't always been a SEX GODDESS I used to be just a mere mortal woman but I grew tired of sexuality being repressed then manifest in late night 900 number ads where 3 bodacious bimbettes heave cleavage into the camera's winking lens and sigh: "Big Girls oooh, Bad Girls oooh, Blonde Girls oooh, you know what to do, call 1-900-UNMITIGATED BIMBO ooooh.
" Yeah I got fed up with the oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh I got fed up with it all so I put on my combat boots and hit the road with my bag full of SEX TOYS that were a vital part of my SEX GODDESS image even though I would never actually use my SEX TOYS 'cause my being a SEX GODDESS it isn't a SEXUAL thing it's a POLITICAL thing I don't actually have SEX, no I'm too busy taking care of important SEX GODDESS BUSINESS, yeah, I gotta go on The Charlie Rose Show and MTV and become a parody of myself and make buckets full of money off my own inane brand of self-righteous POP PSYCHOLOGY because my pain is different because I am a SEX GODDESS and when I talk, people listen why ? Because, you guessed it, I AM THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE and you're not.


by Sylvia Plath | |

Virgin In A Tree

 How this tart fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black

Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows.
For to sheathe the virgin shape In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers, Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed.
Ever since that first Daphne Switched her incomparable back For a bay-tree hide, respect's Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery Bed of a reed.
Look: Pine-needle armor protects Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop Their leafy crowns, their fame soars, Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy: For which of those would speak For a fashion that constricts White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they Who keep cool and holy make A sanctum to attract Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers, They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty Of virgins for virginity's sake.
' Be certain some such pact's Been struck to keep all glory in the grip Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs As you etch on the inner window of your eye This virgin on her rack: She, ripe and unplucked, 's Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe Now, dour-faced, her fingers Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly Askew, she'll ache and wake Though doomsday bud.
Neglect's Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop: Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy Till irony's bough break.