Phil's Parody Poetry Project

This is based on Emily Dickinson, who is dead, like in the poem. She is the only person I know who writes worse poetry than me!

I died once -- quite awhile Ago --
And it was -- really fun --
So now from me -- the Grass does Grow --
And gets fed -- by the Sun --

Being Dead is -- really Cool --
I feel just like -- I'm sleeping --
No longer do I -- eat cold Gruel --
And on me -- Moss is creeping --

White was the Color -- of my Shroud --
The Light Death -- cannot quench
Is not my Gown -- it's like brown Cloud --
Decayed with -- evil Stench --

I really like -- being in this Tomb --
It's dark and cold -- in here --
We have Parties -- in this Room --
My pal Death -- brings the Beer.

This isn't a parody, but it's for Paula, who begins with P, like Phil and Parody and Poetry and Project, so I put it in. Vote for me for class poet! Phil 2000!

Vote Paula Cizek for the President
She should be leader of the Junior Class
(Although she has a slightly crazy bent).
You sit, ignoring speakers, shredding grass.
How boring! To the courtyard you've been sent
To hear the speeches, though you'd rather pass.
All other candidates already went;
Paula is the best, though nearly last.
Now, in Homeroom, voting time is here,
The pencil, ready waiting in your hand.
Whom you should vote for is already clear
And known across the entire Xavier land.
Paula Cizek of losing has no fear
And her victory party's already planned!

I like cookies, but I like girl scouts better! This is a long poem, so I'll just go and get myself some cookies to eat while you read . . .

Once upon a noontime dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore --
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently gently rapping, rapping at my big front door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my big front door --
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak November
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my cupboards end of sorrow -- sorrow for my cookie store --
For the empty crumb-filled void that used to be my cookie store --
Empty here for evermore.

From the fridge there came a moldy veg'table -- it was an oldy --
Creeping toward me, slow and slimy, frightening me even more;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some veg'table a-creeping; I will think of it no more.
There's a visitor entreating entrance at my big front door.
Think of veg'tables no more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my big front door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" -- here I opened wide the door;-
Cobwebs there and nothing more.

Deep into those cobwebs peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams this mortal dared to dream of cookie store;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered, "Cookie store?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured to me, "Cookie store!"
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the kitchen turning, all my stomach in me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Snack time," said I, from the kitchen, "For a cookie I am itchin';
Let me see whose knuckle's twitchin', and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore --
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the door, and, with a polite wave of her hand,
In there stepped a timid Girl Scout of my childhood days of yore;
Not the least impert'nance said she; not a minute's smile she made me;
But, a tiny timid lady, stepped inside my big front door --
Stepped onto my rag-rug doormat just inside my big front door --
Stepped and said, "Please buy s'mores."

Then this brown-clad girl beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the timid, shy decorum of the countenance she wore,
"I will buy your cookies, Girl Scout, then," said I, "I shall no more pout,
Oh you happy little Girl Scout filling up my cookie store --
How I praise you, little Girl Scout -- you refill my cookie store!"
Quoth the Girl Scout, "Buy s'mores!"

Much I praised the little Brownie with a smile that used to frownie,
Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing Girl Scout at his big front door --
Happy Girl Scout cookie-laden standing in his big front door,
Till she whispered, "Three months more."

But the Girl Scout standing lonely on the rag-rug, speaking only
That one phrase as if her soul in that one phrase she did outpour.
Nothing farther then she uttered -- not a Try-It then she fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other cookies from the store --
In the morrow I can go there, shopping at the grocery store."
Then the girl said, "Buy s'mores."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so sweetly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what she utters is her only stock and store
Taught by some cruel Scout Troop Leader whose one thought was, 'I must feed her
Lines like this so they will need her cookies; they will buy s'mores.'
Till the whole Troop was reciting, practicing at their front door,
Just to say this -- 'Buy s'mores.'"

But the Girl Scout still beguiling all my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I brought a cookie tub out to the girl still at my door;
Then, into her face now yelling, I said, "Those cookies I am smelling!
Why my hunger aren't you quelling?" unto the person at my door --
What's this tiny, puny, timid, fearful thing at my front door
Mean in whisp'ring, "Three months more"?

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the girl whose selfish eyes now burned into my hungry core;
This and more I sat divining, with my arms at ease entwining
Round the cookie tub, still pining, while the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But the cookie tub, though whining to the Girl Scout at my door,
May be empty ever more!

Then, methought, the air aboven, perfumed by an unseen oven
Full of chocolate cookies baking, wafting out that oven door.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy Leader lent thee -- with these cookies she hath sent thee.
Respite -- respite and repent thee of thy tempting cookie store;
Shut thy trap and just repent thee of thy tempting cookie store!"
Quoth the Girl Scout, "Buy s'mores."

"Brownie!" said I, "thing of evil! -- Brownie still, if girl or devil! --
Whether Leader sent or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on my doorstep unenchanted --
In this poem by Em'ly haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --
Is there -- is there good punctuation in Dickinson? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Girl Scout, "Nevermore."

"Brownie!" said I, "thing of evil! -- Brownie still, if girl or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore--
Tell this stomach sorrow-laden if, within your backpack laden,
You have cookies, sainted maiden, to refill my cookie store --
Have you cookies, sainted maiden, to refill my cookie store?"
Quoth the Girl Scout, "Three months more."

"Be that word our sign of parting, girl or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting --
"Get thee back unto thy Leader and thy Troop's great cookie store!
Leave no Try-It as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my hunger here unbroken! -- quit the rag-rug of my door!
Take thy voice from out my ears, and take thy feet from off my floor!
Quoth the Girl Scout, "Buy s'mores."

And the Girl Scout, undemanding, still is standing, still is standing
On the rag-rug in the hallway just inside my big front door;
And her eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er her streaming throws her shadow on the floor;
And the hunger in my stomach, where I lie dying on the floor
Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

My lightbulb burned out, so I can't see to write this poem. I fixed it, but it burned out again so I can't see to read you the poem. and I typed it by the rosy glow of my computer monitor!

Do not go gentle into that good night
Kick and scream against the coming grey
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The light bulb that had once been bright
Has lately turned dark, it's faded away;
But do not go gently into that good night.

Against the blackness you must fight
No matter how much for a new bulb you pay;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

It's your duty to do what's right
And there is no other way.
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Don't react to the dark with flight;
Scream in the black, cry for the day --
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The world is black for loss of sight,
From the lamp not one last ray.
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I am not a fraidy-salamander. Just because I have arachnophobia, and nihilophobia, and agoraphobia, and necrophobia, and hydrophobia, and acrophobia, and claustrophobia, and phobophobia, and a few others I forget doesn't mean I'm a fraidy-salamander!

I have been acquainted with great fright.
I have been frightened by rain -- and ran away from rain.
I have been afraid of the furthest city light.

I have been afraid of the saddest city lane.
When I was frightened by the watchman on his beat
I dropped my eyes, unable to explain.

I was feeling afraid of the sound of my feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Scared me into another street.

I never call back nor say goodbye.
I'm scared further still when at great height;
And paralyzed by one luminary clock against the sky.

So I never know if the time's wrong or right.
I have been one acquainted with great fright.