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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.

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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 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 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?

by Barry Tebb |


 for Brenda Williams

The dawn cracked with ice, with fire grumbling in the grate,

With ire in the homes we had left, but still somehow

We made a nook in the crooked corner of Hall Ings,

A Wordsworthian dream with sheep nibbling by every crumbling

Dry-stone wall, smoke inching from the chimney pot beside the

Turning lane, the packhorse road with every stone intact that bound

The corner tight then up and off to Thurstonland, past the weathered

Walls of the abandoned quarry, beyond Ings Farm where Rover ran

His furious challenge to our call.
We had little, so little it might have been nothing at all The few hundred books we’d brought and furniture bought At auction in the town, left-overs knocked down to the few pounds We had between us, dumped outside the red front door by the Carrier’s cart; stared at by neighbours constantly grimacing Though the grimy nets of the weavers’ cottage windows, baffled As to who we were and how and why we’d come there.
I never gave it a thought (perhaps I should have) but with The sense of ‘poet’ in my soul, a book to read and one To write, night walks in the valley’s hyaline air through Brambled woods and on down tracks we trekked along Until the sharp sneck of dawn drew us back to the One-up one-down cottage on the lumbering hill.
Was it folly, chance or madness, another’s or our own, Drove us from Leeds, our native home, past shadows Darker than death itself upon the bedroom wall At Rawdon in the bungalow by the cross-roads where we met? Three decades on and yet I cannot say for sure the destiny That made us meet was dark or light, some sound or sight ‘Beyond our mortal vision’, some immaterial infinity, A double helix on the heels of both that made my south Your north and jerked the compass till we knew Not day from night nor wrong from right.
Only a week ago you took me to the house you came from Thirty years before.
Together we stood as strangers in a room Filled with plastic saccharine furniture, vinyl gloss, cabinets Of china dogs and photographs of a departed wife and child.
All that remained of your family was a hidden coat of red paint Beneath the kitchen windowsill and on a faded page the number for Your long-gone neighbour, Lilly Clarke, ninety if she lives at all, The memory of a lilac tree, the Anderson shelter hidden by the fence, And the incomer’s invitation to call again and then and then.
We were wrong from the beginning, you always said, wrong To be together, wrong to go away or perhaps, as Hobsbaum said, ‘It was the place’s fault.
If we’d made it to Haworth as we Dreamed, standing on the moor top, the heather muffling your tears, The wind sighing its threnody, crying its cradle-song, whispering Promises of its care to come, its breath caressing the very stones We sat on, lost beyond the ken of any guide, beyond the signatures Of time and place, beyond, beyond.
II There is no clock can measure what we both passed through, The darker griefs that soon began to haunt your fragile sleep, The echoes of nightmare flights through empty streets that soon Began to creep behind the wainscot of those tiny rooms, the rat That took them up and ran to hide and haunt us, encountered At the cellar-head or heard beneath the boards.
The sad rat-catcher’s Nod and shaking head, as if he knew more than the pair of us What lay ahead.
Like Charlotte’s your hair lay in dark ringlets On the pillow while I lay stunned and terrified and lost.
From then till now, two children grew, two fathers died; One mad, one sad, but both alone.
Together or apart our lives Have changed beyond repair, the text altered and the cover bare But still the same story more or less, echoing down hospital corridors, Left in faded waiting rooms and lost like our children.
Cyril Williams, gravedigger at Killingbeck, buried among The graves his own hands dug, lay beside your mother, ‘In death as in life together,’ - what parody lies hidden Beneath the marble chips of the unmarked grave? Where is the cross of weathered wood and stapled names? The thirty roses that you left had withered on the stem, The weeds had spread and spread and you yourself Were paler than the dead.
There may be little time or time enough for ills We have to bear for others with our own.
Madness Seems our calling, yours and mine, speaking a tongue Where words are symbols, signs and symptoms, pointers To a buried past, clues to an untold murder.
Those nightmares came to haunt us and teach us and take us To that room in Stainmore Place, your mother’s ghost At Banquo’s feast, the guest that never could Be laid to rest.
III One stifling July day thirty years on we returned to Honley Where the hamlet snagged on the hillside, fattened now and hollow And grown grey with money and success: one cottage joined on To the next, the common land fenced off, the nearby chapel Turned to a desirable residence, the tombstones garden ornaments, The heart of Hall Ings Mill crumpled under mechanical hammers And reeled before our eyes, dust rising to powder the wings Of passing butterflies.
We watched the white-glazed inner walls Sink in shame to shattered heaps of stone and shards of nothingness.
I never thought it would be the experience it was- How could anything be more banal than a visit to Oakes? Twenty two Georgian semis from the sixties, brass coach-lamps By glass front doors, irreproachable gardens, The estate lodge’s great oak doors opening to vistas Of street on street, the fields and cows gone.
We peered through the polished windows at the hearth We’d sat around, our hearts numb, all hope gone; but then A quiet came we had not felt for years, a lens of silence Enclosed us, a single leaf fell at my feet.
IV The rat we tried to frighten, trap or poison, saw us off instead; It seemed as if it grew beneath our very skins and circled With our blood and hammered at our heads and leered from specks Of fluff beneath the bed.
The wainscot was the worst, it seemed No whitewashed wall was free from cavities that wound behind And joined another maze of runs that opened to the boards of yet Another floor, until the tiny house had grown to one great rat-run Vaster than the universe, where that single rodent gnawed and slithered To unsettle finally our fragile peace.
I did not want to go.
You did.
I could not stay alone.
It was The whispers said and never ceased, ‘the beginning of the end’.
Now, thirty odd years on, I do not know at all, no certainty is certain, No narrative, however neat, is sure.
I know how listlessly we tried Again in Leeds, a tiny flat with the white telephone that never rang Next to the Christian Science Church my sad grandmother trekked to with Her cancer-ridden spine.
It was doomed from the start.
The previous Tenants had ended in divorce.
If the certain salesman and his gleaming Bride had failed to make it, how could we? Our moves from Huddersfield And back became more frantic and our peace more fragile.
You always felt lonely in the countryside, while I longed in Leeds For open vistas cloud-masses over the blue chain of hills, the silence Of the lanes, the sheep bells and the endless walks.
Was I in flight.
? You had to ask but then as now I had no answer; but it’s the way I was, Hating the clutter of the city, man en masse.
I thought I needed a mate For a Platonic cave, a companion for the Martello tower in Dublin Bay, Whatever it was I never wanted you to go but go you did to stay.
The one became the two again, you shed your ring, we had our son to share.
I read instead of writing, psycho-analysis became a faith of sorts, A pastime then a passion I kept on with even when my muse returned Demanding me in dreams.
Our children grew, then you wrote, too, by candle In the dark or by the breath of the midnight sea on Brighton beach.
You made the rat return so I could face it, retracing childhood’s Nightmare footsteps while you recalled the terror of countless Nights and days until I understood the meaning of our parted ways.
V If only we could go back to the cottage on the hill at Honley Where the road sweeps gently under the bridge where trains never ran Our voices still echoing round the cavernous walls the smooth moss clings to And we are beyond the reach of the driving rain.
There is always the odd cottage no one can be bothered with where the lorries roar But when you look behind a random stream gurgles by an overgrown track With a gully of pebbles and an overhanging rock, The door still hangs on that rusty latch; your thumb might still Make it yield, not in the sturm und drang of adolescence but in The quieter intimacies of shared grief.
The hills have not moved nor the clouds altered the stance of their lazy azure Nor has the watery Pennine sun gone in before the swallows gather.
Perhaps I have lost that jouissance-and who would not given the tornadoes, Undivined and undeserved that seized our lives in their burning fury, Leaving us awake in a world of dark horizons and troubled days, Our memory a cave of broken shards.
One death came when a brother and a mother gathered so that a father Might die opportunely and without succour in a hill-top hospital, Lonely as a scarecrow and inaccessible on the moorland midnight, Beyond the reach of all but death standing at the bed-head.
Similarly your own father blundering ‘into the Selby Road, high on morphine’ Could but end in the same way.
These griefs were only too normal, as was my mother’s death you wrote of With such sad eloquence as you shared my vigil: nothing could be added To your lines.
And of it all and of what I cannot speak? The silence in Gethsemane The breaking of bread The communion when the wine I drank Made your cradle Catholic soul Fret at my insouciance.
VI 1 Waking early I felt my sixty years The winters of childhood slipping and sliding In my tired imagination, the icicles on the kitchen window, The ashes scattered over paths in patches of grey and black.
We have so much to comprehend, too much for any mortal, The madness of youth, so fierce, so compulsive, The cocktails of alcohol and drugs, the quarrels with knives and guns Entered into as lightly as love was once with us.
Our generation awaits the taste of death With none of the anticipated solace, No children’s children visiting in spite of the spare room Stacked with toys, with shelves of dusty books, Baum’s ‘Magical Land of Oz’ Its spine laid bare, Mombi the witch, Dorothy and Toto Gathered forlornly round the saw-horse, the scarlet and crimson Of their Edwardian rig slightly ridiculous, the Gothic typeface Evoking sepia prints of my father at five in a pinafore or seven In a sailor-suit feeding the Sunday birds, my grandmother Framed in a trellis of mignonette, the aroma fragrant still, The violet stock lingering and re-kindling our first garden The autumn we moved in, the rampant blossoms cager in the soil Of my father’s first sowing.
2 For us there was no garden, the cottage at Hall lngs Had only a paved yard, with tufts of grass and lichen The whole country round an abundance of hedges and ditches Where dog-roses blossomed, meadows of cow-parsley, stiles to field paths, The weathered sign ‘To Thurstonland’ we followed with hand-in-hand innocence, Returning at sunset, our hands full of violets.
3 The garden at Oakes stayed barren, thc bare soil cumbered with builder’s waste, Resisting our listless endeavours.
The jobbing gardener stirred Paraquat, Muttering under his breath as he sheltered in the garage from the sudden rain.
He left the seeding to another day, left it too late to sow, grumbled As he turfed it the day after our move with Brenda alone, Scrubbing the boards.
She saw him scowl as he punched the limp turf With his calloused hands, demanding payment, angry at her innocence.
4 Brudenell Road had no garden to speak of, A couple of feet at the front with a broken wall And the back bare and hard from children’s play, The privet was matted with shards of glass, worn tennis balls and broken toys, So tattered I cut it back to the wall, I sat on the top step and read, Watching the children play in the sand I’d trundled in barrow loads From the builder’s yard, a make-do sandpit which drew the whole street, West Indian, English and Asian built temples together.
Our sandalled Bearded neighbour was the first to complain, his teacher wife beside him, The next-door French widow supporting, “So numerous the children, n’est ce pas?” Meaning “Don’t encourage the Pakis, there are too many already.
” Like thunder the row erupted, a streetful of shouting, my voice the loudest, The yesses had it, the children remained, our last real garden.
VI1 in memory of Emily Bronte I Besieged, beaten and bruised I had proved my oracle lied There was no peace in poetry and flight.
Yet as I sat and watched the night Gather in the shallows of heather I remembered the steep stone streets, The ginnels of my childhood, The walls of Roman York.
On this last June day, hidden by a haze of walls, I found a cottage so overgrown I had to part a mass of green To touch the door, the window-panes opaque with dirt, sills choked with books, A rusted letter-box, cracked lintel, lichened roof-slates caving in, A ‘Sold’ board hammered firmly into place.
2 There was no solace in the parsonage, no solace there at all, The staff found it odd, my wanting to park my heavy bag and trudge From room to room.
The couch Emily died on, so shabby and so faded, Patrick’s hat and sticks like stage props, Mrs.
Gaskell’s escritoire So thoroughly bourgeois, Charlotte’s crinoline evoking ‘Ooh’ and ‘Aah’.
I sat outside the tourist shop, watching the families pass, Still reeling from the news of our son’s loss, His life-in-death and death-in-life.
The crowds gone, the shops closed I browsed over rock and lichen, O sleeper in the earth Would that you might listen.
3 Would that you waken and tell me Why young girls’ beauty no longer moves me? Their innocent glances as they leap-frog or hand-stand With such jouissance takes hold of me no more.
I watched a troupe of Keighley girls Pass through a turnstile on their way To clubs in Leeds last night.
One wore a veil tacked round with sequins Like scruples on the hem: there is no beauty like that girl’s Who’s naked feet touched heaven in their swirls.
Note: I use the word ‘scruples’ in its old sense i.
a weight of 20 grains.

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 Kenneth Patchen |

When We Were Here Together

 when we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one
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 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 Maggie Estep |

Sex Goddess

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
"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.