Best Parody Poems
The Sounds of Silence
By: Simon & Garfunkle
Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a streetlamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
No one dare
Disturb the sound of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ciERzSFRwzk
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With a Little Salt and Lime
Hello Jose my old friend
I've come to guzzle you again
The party started before afternoon
I started sipping on you far too soon
My last SENTENCE I fear was slightly slurred
(Vision blurred)
Forgot to EEEET----my breakfast
They look with pity upon me
'Can't hold his liquor', they agree
Now I'm weaving when I try to walk
Senseless babble when I try to talk
Then I feel the NEEEED to flee to an old-oak-tree
(To heave and pee)
but cannot LOOOZE---- my breakfast
Did not like his tone at all
Got myself into a brawl
I quickly put him in his rightful place
Broke his knuckles with my pretty face
Shoulda’ had my OOOATS but didn't so alas!
(I kiss the grass)
and now my ASSSS----is breakfast
In the morning I awake
moaning with a bad headache
Bright-sun glaring through the window pane
I whine and whimper in my wretched pain
In the next room a TV-is-blaring
and screams in my pounding-ear
(No thank you dear)
Believe I'll PASS on----breakfast
*Moral of the story: Never drink before noon OR on an empty stomach...
I grew a beard
while waiting for you
it looks more and more
like I'll never get through
My left ear was aching
I switched to my right
This perpetual holding
has no end in sight
I wish I'd have noticed
before such great cost
that your phone number spells out
800-GET-LOST
Though I pressed '1' for English
I am thinking now
pressing '12' for Braille
might work better somehow
My friends have all passed on
my children have grown
while I have been sitting here
holding this phone
Your toll-free number
is anything but
with pulse-pounding migraine
and a pain in my butt
Yes, I was clean shaven
when this number I called
but now I'm all wrinkled
and dammit I'm bald!
My bones they will find
still sitting right here
the telephone clenched
where once was my ear
And your endless recording
monotonous, dull
will be amplified through
my cold empty skull
When I refused to ride with Death
He tied my hands and feet,
Then tossed me in with some poor guy
He'd grabbed up off the street.
Oh, what a hurry he was in!
He slammed it to the floor.
We sat in wide-eyed, abject fear,
Each clinging to a door.
While whizzing past the school, we saw
The children run and play.
We passed the fields where tractors hummed
On this, our judgment day.
We captives introduced ourselves,
Shook hands, and sadly talked.
When Death heard unfamiliar names,
He gasped, slowed down, and balked.
He made a sudden stop beside
A swelling of the ground.
He scratched his head, he murmured low,
And then he turned around.
" 'Tis centuries until your time!
I've made a grave mistake.
Seems I misread the pick-up sheet.
You're free, for goodness sake!"
(A parody of the Modern Major-General's Song from "The Pirates of Penzance" by Gilbert and Sullivan.)
I am the very model of a very stable genius.
Compared to mine all others’ ...brains... are positively weeny; yes,
My grasp of science, history, and law is astronomical.
No need to read; I go by feel! (It’s highly economical.)
My sober tweets would make a truly fine encyclopedia
For fighting lies of traitors in the damn elitist media.
It’s sad how badly haters hate and treat me like a meanie; yes,
And all because I am, in fact, a very stable genius.
I see the world in black and white; hooray for monochromacy!
It shows the unnecessity of nuance and diplomacy.
No matter what I do, my fans consider me adorable;
Their loyalty to how I roll is not the least deplorable.
A win like mine (I surely could have had a clear majority!)
By common wisdom should confer a little more authority.
In short, I envy autocrats like Kim and Mussolini; yes,
I am the very model of a very stable genius.
This is a parody of "I can't Dance." by Genesis.
Metaphor junkies
spewing their dung
actin all holy
like they've written in tounges...
Can anybody
interpret that (Bleep)
explain the poems meaning
with a comment that fits...
Then say, I can't write
or compose
demi-gods are out there
always breaking my (Bleeps...)
They say, I can't write
or compose
so I'm just sittin here typin anything...
Contests
really tickle a muse
seems the hosts
and poet are truly confused...
A muse ain't fickle
just knows what it likes
if you can't relate
then yours may take a hike...
They say, I can't write
or compose
tappin on this keyboard
till my fingers are numb...
They say I can't write
or compose
so I'm just sittin here typin anything...
Metaphor groupies
bow to the ground
ain't got a clue
of what the poem expounds...
But it's got image
and metaphors too
though I've seen better
on the walls of a loo...
They say, I can't write
or compose
everything I pen
is either weak or cliche...
Yeah I can't write
or compose
so I'm just sittin here typin...
Yeah I try to make it right...
Put the verbiage, in its proper place...
~Note~
I also write on another site as RunningWolves . On that site there some really rude poets who think they are Gods gift to humanity. They think everything they write is a masterpiece and are not shy about belittling people who's comments on their work aren't good enough for them. So, I wrote this for them.
So this has nothing to do with anyone on PoetrySoup.
See, I never claimed to be a poet, nor to have anything that even remotely resembles talent. I am just an simple guy playing at poet. anything I do that even seems like a talent is really just God's way of keeping me from making a total fool of myself... I guess you could say its on loan from God... Thank you!
News is abhorring
And so boring
Starting from the break of dawn
I think we need
To be indeed
Vaccinated for the yawn
They always try
The same tired lie
Their old shtick goes on and on
I’ll catch my death
With lack of breath
If they don’t vaccinate the yawn
They put on acts
With rusty facts
Their dog dug up from the lawn
And then they’ll drone
Over that bone
Hurry and vaccinate the yawn
Obey we should
For public good
And if not they’ll use their brawn
That same lousy
Makes me drowsy
Excuse me while I yawn
Here’s protection
From infection
Sorry but we’ve seen that con
So please instead
Cure sleepyhead
And vaccinate the yawn
We’ve had enough
Of their old stuff
We’re pooped out being their pawn
Since they’re creepy
We’ll stay sleepy
Until they vaccinate the yawn
'Twas the twilight of the year
a twinkling tiara.
December 31st, digits dancing dunes
in the Sahara.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
it's a prance.
A numerical Irish step dance
given a whimsical chance.
In the calendar's corners,
a magical mystery unfurls.
As the date spins and swirls
like a jester's jingling twirls.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
in a line.
A date so divine,
it deserves its own shrine
so fine!
But wait, what's this? A satirical twist!
The date's just a number
it doesn't exist!
One, two, three, one, two, three,
what's the fuss?
Wait… all dates are human-
created
YES, by us!
The numbers are shocked
feeling quite superfluous.
In the grand scheme of things
oh so ridiculous!
So here's to the New Year
let's raise a toast.
To the date that we've come
to boast the most.
With champagne that sparkles
and tastes like the sun.
2023 is yet undone
run from the old
to the new one,
run, run, run!
In the canon of the digits
a lesson we see.
Time is a construct
as fluid as the sea.
So let's celebrate the moments
both big and small.
For, in the end
they're the most
precious of all.
There once was a fox, as wise as can be,
He lived in the hollow of an old oak tree.
Not so very far from an ol’ Farmer’s Farm;
A farmer he knew would do him great harm.
Also, on that farm lived a lively young goose,
And he caused the fox’s dry mouth to juice.
Without a care, the goose gandered about,
Causing the fox great apprehension, no doubt.
One day they met at the edge of the farm:
The goose knew, for sure, the fox meant him harm.
Mr. Fox, I know you can eat me, he said,
But, I know a better way you can be fed.
The farmer has many an egg you can eat,
and they are more juicy than feathery meat.
I’ll tell you just how to gain your supply;
as quick as a wink, or the blink of an eye.
The farmer is rich and he doesn’t have need
for all of his wealth, and all of his greed.
We poor of the earth, he cares not about:
We should take eggs from the lecherous lout.
Sure, he feeds us, and quite well in fact,
But he profits from the sweat of our back.
We animals are brothers, and should take heed
About each others wants and each others need.
You can sneak around by the ol’ mill gate,
while I distract the hound, down by the lake.
His threat to you I shall circumvent,
and you can then eat to your hearts content.
The sly ol’ fox, he surmised this odd tale:
Hen’s eggs were delicious, he knew quite well.
Oh, this we will do, he quickly agreed:
Eggs, he knew, were quite delicious indeed.
So, the goose set off, the hound to distract,
And also the fox, to the mill gate out back.
But, the goose had another plan in his mind;
A problem solution of a far different kind.
He enlisted the hound in his subversive trick,
To solve the fox dilemma finally and quick.
He sent the hound round to the ol’ mill gate,
Leaving himself to just piddle and wait.
Then suddenly upon him with claw and tooth
Pounced the fox, ‘fore he could honk or hoot.
In this moral lesson we all can deduce,
Why no-one says: “he’s as sly as a goose”.
The SLY fox knew: “If the goose would betray
the farmer that feeds him, he will betray me too.”
Lionel
I do not like your mobile phone.
I do not like its ringing tone.
I do not like it here nor there;
I do not like it any where.
I do not like it on a plane,
nor when I’m on a crowded train;
not in a bus, not in a car,
not even in a crowded bar.
I do not want to hear it ping
or, even worse, Madonna sing.
I do not like the sound of pop;
that wretched noise has got to stop.
So let me make this mighty clear,
your phone, I do not want to hear.
And, should it ever start to ring,
I’ll come and smash the wretched thing.
~
'On the Loose' Contest for G.Rix
She’s too titty to be a preacher.
She can’t even bead a rook.
A rental deceptionist? Maybe.
At my teeth she once look a took.
As a wean clerker, she’ll never do.
I once caught her nicking her pose.
She doesn’t even hash her wands.
And she chews the tails off her nose!
For this lad sass, I see joe knob.
No mouse or honey has she.
Her life has not one pun fart!
I’m glow sad I’m shot knee.
Written march 25, 2016 for the Contest of Roy Jerden
Brigitte my love
Our Country suffers of many debts
The people are restless
Whatever shall we do love?
Ah Macron, we must think past the cookies
The solutions are complex, answers evasive
Let me speak with Marie Antoinette, she shall know!
Queen of Navarre, By god we shall be saved!
Marie, Marie Antoinette our people are restless
Our republic is in debt. these are crazy times!
Whatever shall we do?
I am fed up, allons-y
Ah fear not, if they have not bread!
Let them eat Nutella!
Lower the prices
Nutella for the masses!!!
Marie, are you sure? very very sure of such things?
Oui oui, on with it, my father was emperor of Rome
Nutella will calm the masses
Come here Nemo. taste, see even Nemo is tres happy now!
And so France lowered the prices of Nutella
Thus began the nouveau French Revolution
Riots in the streets, brawling in the magasins
The uprising has began, we want our Nutella for free
The masses rose
Nutella for all, Nutella for sans prix
We are all somewhat fou for Nutella you see!
And so the masses fought each other for Nutella's liberty
Nutella one and Nut Ella all!
I swear to your Brigette
We should have given them Macarons!!!
People remain civilized with cafe and cookies! n'est pas?
Emmanuel my love, fret not
The revolution shall be quelled
Qh I have the perfect person for this
He shall restore order to our dear republic
Prey tell Brigette? Who could do such a thing now
Riots everywhere, the masses fight each other daily?
The streets are not safe
There is a shortages of Nutella now, we are doomed cheri
Non non mon amour, I shall call Alizee
She shall sing us out of the terrible mess
She is the mistress of Doug McMillion
This man can save us all!!
Brigitte, who is this man you call Doug?
Why Emmanuel he is the president of Walmart
He has squashed many Black Fridays rebellions
He shall save us all!!!!!!
From these unruly unsavory Nutella shoppers!!!!!
Vive la France!
Vive Alizee
Mange ton macaroon mon cheri
C'est ton droit et ta liberté
Translations
Allons-y = Lets go, pronounced similar to Alizee
Magasins = Stores
N'est pas is written on sound should be "N'est ce pas"
Mange ton macaroon mon cheri = Eat your macaroon cookies my love"
C'est ton droit et ta liberte = Is your right and your liberty
Remember the story
of Billy Goats Gruff?
The troll under the bridge,
and all of that stuff?
If you liked that old story
it's all good and well,
but it isn't at all
the troll tale I will tell.
Now, Trolius Troll
was a timorous soul;
A more timid troll
you never shall see.
He lived in a hole
in the base of the bole,
(that is, the trunk)
of a turpentine tree.
Young Trolius Troll,
I ask you to note,
is a strict vegetarian;
he does not eat goat.
You might not believe me,
but, begging your pardon,
he eats only produce
from his vegetable garden.
One day, after harvesting
some of his crop,
with a basket of turnips,
with some carrots on top,
he strode up the path,
just as proud as could be,
toward his home in the trunk
of the turpentine tree.
Then, outside the door
of his pine tree abode,
was a sight that made
Trolius Troll drop his load.
There, with a chainsaw
and a double-bit ax,
stood a brawny, black bearded,
blue eyed lumberjack.
With his feet wide apart
on the green, grassy ground,
the lumberjack looked
the troll's tree up and down--
Then, laying the ax
on a moist, mossy bank,
he gave the saw's start rope
a sudden, sharp yank.
With a white puff of smoke
and an ear splitting sound,
the saw shattered the silence
for acres around.
The lumberjack stepped
to the tree's sturdy base
with a smile of delight
on his black-bearded face.
Then, the usually timorous
troll gave a shout,
and, pounding his chest,
he went leaping about.
With a wild snarl of rage
and a blood chilling wail,
the once timid Trolius
charged up the trail.
The brave lumberjack
was stricken with awe.
He turned from the tree,
and dropped the chain saw.
Through the ferns and the bushes
the tree feller ran.
and he never returned
to the forest again.
And so ends a story,
that some might find droll,
of a timid and timorous
tree dwelling troll.
But its message is clear,
it’s as clear as can be:
You may monkey about with Trolius, friend,
but you’d better not mess with his tree.
From my window lofty high
I sit and watch the passersby
Safely from within the womb
Of this quiet and private room
That's my asylum in the sky
And, I imagine...
From the safety of my perch
Above the elm, the oak, and birch
Alone, I slowly drift through life
Exempt from conflict, chance, or strife
Away from any harmful search
And, I imagine...
From my pinnacle of peace
Much like the eagle, lark, and geese
I wrap myself in solitude
Safely from the multitudes
And their evils that never cease
And, I imagine...
I imagine a world doing good
With folks behaving like they should
A world glowing with brotherly love
That's flowing down from God above
With all faiths lovingly understood
But then...
From this prison lofty high
I'm left alone to wonder why
Why the world became so cold
And, why compassion can't unfold
Out there perhaps a soul could try
But here alone,
...I can only imagine.
Timothy I. Brumley
Kirk: ‘Lt. Uhura, come to my quarters at 1800 hours’
Uhura: ‘Yes captain, might I ask what’s up?’
Kirk: ‘Nothing now but something WILL be at 1800 hours’
Bones: ‘Jim, is this a medical issue?’
Kirk: ‘You bet your ***** it is, Bones’
Sulu: ‘Captain, a Klingon ship is approaching’
Kirk: ‘Blast that sucker to smithereens, I got a date’
Chekov: ‘Captain, you’ll need protection on this mission’
Kirk: No problem Ensign, got a few here in my wallet’
Obi-Wan Kenobi: ‘May the force be with you’
Kirk:’ Thanks Obi, but you’re in the wrong contest’
Obi-Wan Kenobi: ‘This isn’t PD’s contest?’
Kirk: ‘HELL no, now SKAT will probably disqualify us’
Obi-Wan Kenobi: ‘Well, may the force be with you anyway’
Kirk: ‘Look Kenobi, nobody’s forcing ANYBODY here’
Spock: ‘Captain, I’m receiving a message from SKATfleet Command’
Kirk: ‘What Mr. Spock? And why do you always talk like that?’
Spock: ‘To qualify for the contest, the writer has to command the ship’
Kirk: ‘Damn it all! What the…FRONT AND CENTER WRITER!’
Writer: ‘Um…All hands on deck?...Anchors away?’
Uhura: ‘Ohh Captain KIRRK, it’s 1800 hours’…
Kirk: ‘Not now Uhura, I’m not in the mood!’
Uhura: Ohh Captain WRITERRR, it’s 1800 hours’…
Writer: ‘Kirk, you have the helm. I’ll be in my quarters’
Spock: ‘Fascinating’
Kirk: ‘Shut-up Spock’…
Tim Ryerson
Theme: Sexual harassment in the workplace
For SKAT’s contest
Farcical, extravagant
My birthmark is a scar
A speckled blotch ...
A spot of pox
An icon from afar
I'm an upstart, I'm an eyesore
Ranting with a flair
In a tempest, I'm a rabid bird
Setting fire to the air
As dauntless as a hellhag
Unmoved by love or care
I can hold up in a cyclone
Feasting on your fear
I'm your last hope
As a laughingstock
I'm your courage in a dare
As audacious as a terrorist
With death-defying hair
When it's time to play the tragic fool
I'm as flagrant as a glare
Seething with a vengeance
In a tantrum of despair
Written by © Raven Drake