Anthology
of Imitations
and Parodies from the Students of English 462, 18th-Century
Literature
Table of Contents
On
Musical Creativity
To
Stress
To
Graduation
The
Rape of the Lock, a Preview
The
Touch of the Tush,
A Parody of Pope
In
the Gentleman’s Bathroom, Parody of In the Lady’s Dressing Room
Strephon’s
Secret
The
Rape of the Lock
Revisited
The Reasons that Induced Lady M_______ to
Write a Poem call’d “The Reasons that
Induced Dr S___
to Write a Poem call'd ‘The Lady's
Dressing Room’”
An Imitation of the Work of John Dennis
On
Musical Creativity
A true Musician's task is, in the main,
Before all else, the call to entertain,
But some few souls, in eagerness to please,
Look to the past for what with all agrees.
In faithful imitation, writing songs
Whose careful structure even copies wrongs;
Acquired the forms of old, all tried and true,
Yet forms alone, the passion not renewed;
Musicians scour all history for notes,
Return from research, play each song by rote;
Rely upon straightforward four chord power;
Whose simple virtues never seem to sour.
Restricted only to the basic keys
Whose fingering's uncomplicated ease,
Provides a safety one can understand,
And strengthens melody for any band.
In lyrics, too, they ransack cherished past;
From selfsame mold generic lines are cast:
Describing one besotted lover's sighs,
To his belov'd, “Acknowledge me!” he cries;
He would, if she her face away would shy,
Unlov'd, break down, and soon would surely die.
This poetry repeated on and on,
The depth of lyric ne'er increased upon.
A thousand more inferior songs inspired,
'Til e'en the sycophantic masses tire.
A little talent's a dangerous thing,
For art does not rely on how one sings;
Impov'rished, starving artists' tempting lies
In need and want of money's plaintive cries;
And yet, remain and Find Forgotten Chords,
Soon all necessities one can afford:
Though imitation seems a path to fame,
The meteoric rise saves not one's name.
Though notes go not beyond the classic twelve,
The artist, music from within must delve;
Create uniquely personal new sounds,
Not simply chords in searching blindly found,
Not ignorant of what has come before
But music must change, must reach for more:
A quick and jaunty trip down Penny Lane,
The quiet dream of Strawberry's refrain;
The soul with poignant, striking beauty grips,
As hers whose face did launch a thousand ships;
And Townshend's Tommy stays desensitized,
Returning, showing others truth so prized;
Abstraction waits outside of Eden's Gates,
And world's end Dylan then prognosticates.
In recent times, as well, the artist thrives,
To bleaker landscapes song creative strives:
Nirvana's dismal world all spread In Bloom,
Escaping darkness to an early tomb;
A pessimistic future, No Surprises found,
By life's mechanic subtle vices bound.
Heroic artists, but, each shares a thread
Agree they all—mime not the music dead.
Though art cannot but bear past's sacred mark,
That gleaned from old remains half dark;
In ignorance of present, oversight
Denies completed melody its light.
Acknowledge past, remain a man of now;
Remember this, and future work be crown'd.
To Stress
O Stress! thou killer of a peaceful mind,
How shall I protect thy worries from thee?
And if thou would be ever so kind,
To keep thyself from panicking me.
A Beast! strong and mighty, it never tires,
Like David[1], whose giant finally was defeated,
Pressure shall succumb to my desires,
Alas! Thy monster will be succeeded!
The cause of such sadness and pain,
May find a way to come back to me,
And the happiness that keeps me sane,
No longer will it let myself see.
Come then sleep, the cure I seek,
And once again, help me survive thy week!
To Graduation
O Thou! Whose name too often is celebrated;
Whose true nature is feelings of inadequacy!
Both Pride and Foolishness together cooperated
To facilitate thine false sense of felicity!
Like a perfectly stunning sunset, thy joy and beauty
Lasts only as long as the moment it is there;
While Drudgery’s hold will last an eternity
As fades the memory of thee from here!
Four years to receive the closure thee provides
But afterwards once again starts over;
Many have closed one chapter of their life
To find that much on the other side hides!
’Tis thy time to shine and to make a believer,
To show that there is more to thee then strife!
The Rape of
the Lock—A Preview!
The Beautiful Belinda dreams of Wedd’ngs
Of Days to come sometime in the near Spring.
Alas, her dreams have yet to be fulfilled.
Her gowns are Silk. Her Eyes are blue and still
as she assumes her place within the crowd.
Sylphs guard her innocence but aren’t around
to stop the ev’l Barons vulgar wishes.
Scissors snap closed on pure ‘n golden Pieces.
The Baron acquest’s the gold, dead Locks.
What seems like moments brings a lifelong shock
to sweet lockless Belinda’s pure Design.
So cruel, so proud he says: “vict’ry is mine!”
Sheds she salt Tears without comfort. Those Tears
alert the gods ‘n heav’nly ones come to hear.
The Locks, they take to be among the Stars.
The Tale is best seen through Pope’s wise Eyes.
The Touch of the Tush (Parody of Pope)
The clock strikes three and says she must arise,
Still tir’d Melinda opens up her eyes,
Asleep til sun begins on its descent,
For parties all the night she had just spent.
And in a dream that night she went to meet,
A man with things that she would call a treat,
He’d give her things to make her feel the pleasure,
In mind and body, both are things she treasured.
At night she’d planned to out on the town,
To do this in her closet was the gown,
The make up for her face was on the stand,
For at the club she needed to look grand.
The place that night was “Hampton Cabaret”
Where all the rich go every night to play,
All of the drinks and dancing you can buy,
And party with the stars til morn is nigh.
A man named Aaron saw her in the club,
Admired her buns of which he’d like to rub,
In Aaron’s mind he thought he was the best,
But all the ladies thought he was a pest.
He stole things from the women whom he’d dreamed,
And then out came the plans of which he’d schemed,
To touch upon the butt of our young dame,
And keep the mem’ry for his hall of fame.
While Aaron joined some other friends for din,
Melinda came and asked to be let in,
For late into the night the group had talked,
‘Bout life and all the paths that they had walked.
They talked around the table with a drink,
A drink of kinds to alter how they think,
It was not Sprite or coffee which they choose,
The group had sipped on many cups of booze.
While in the club a voice inside her mind,
Told her to be aware of those who dined,
For one had planned to sexually harass,
The thing she moved out on the floor, her ass.
This voice was from a big strong man named Bill,
Her bodyguard that had been trained to kill,
A man who just was bold enough to dare,
To lay a finger on her derriere.
Dancing on the floor, getting on her grind,
Aaron made the move towards his sweet’s behind,
But little did he know Bill formed a mob,
To beat the living mess out of the snob.
As Aaron walked across the floor towards her,
Her fanny with his hand he gave a spur,
And all the while all this was seen by Bill,
Who tried to stop him but slipped on a spill.
Melinda pitched a fit and stopped the fun,
That was being enjoyed by everyone,
She turned around and gave his face a slap,
Twas harder than his little booty tap.
A “sorry” is what she wanted to hear,
But Aaron had already ran with fear,
For Bill and his big army had begun,
To make their way on to him for some fun.
They picked him up and threw him to the curb,
The feeling Aaron felt was so superb,
While he was getting beat outside the bars,
His dream was rising up among the stars.
They tried to punch the image from his dreams,
But all Aaron released was shrieks and screams,
This Dream, the Muse shall consecrate in Fame,
And mid’st the Stars inscribe Melinda’s Name!
In
the Gentleman’s Bathroom
Parody
of In the
Lady’s Dressing Room
Five minutes (and can it take
less?)
Young Peter spent in that
bathroom mess
A God to women in his head,
Perhaps it’s why he’s yet to
wed.
Around the corner, Mary waits,
To inspect
his room
while he dates.
Mary, a girl of Peter’s past,
Wasn’t his first, won’t be his
last.
The first thing noticed was
the floor
She looked down knowing there
was more
Hair on that floor than on her
head,
Nests
strewn about, the
small bug’s beds?
Mary could imagine what lived
In all
that hair, once
attractive.
Her eyes moved to the cabinet,
Sweet Mary wasn’t having it,
Covered in what looked to be
slime,
A closer look showed dirt and
grime.
It was clear Peter did not use
Brooms or mops to clean his
refuse.
Just when she though
she’d see it all,
She looked passed the largest
hair ball
And glanced upon his marble
sink,
His dish of soap looked like a
mink.
How did he ever clean himself?
There wasn’t another
soap on the shelf.
Peter was such a handsome lad,
Who would have thought it was
so bad?
After fixating on the soap,
Mary couldn’t help but hope
That nothing else would be as
bad
As that
big furry soap
had.
And then something caught
Mary’s eye
Right
where Peter’s
toothbrush should lie.
There was no clean toothbrush
in view,
Instead a stick covered in goo.
Mary knew that once it had been
A brush to
help get his
teeth clean.
Now it shouldn’t go near a
mouth,
Her insides lurched, she had
to get out.
And to think that mouth she
had kissed,
Could it get any worse than
this?
No sooner did she have this
thought
Did her eyes turn to things they naught.
The sink: a picture of disgrace
Is this where Peter washed his
face?
The sink itself was partially
black,
And it was clear there was a
lack
Of bleaches and someone to
clean,
‘Cause in the sink there lay a
ring
Of nasty things: mildew and
scum
Mary knew there was more to
come.
She glanced towards the shower
stall,
And was appalled at what she
saw.
The tiles lined with thick
black grout
And mold was growing all about.
To top it off there was a ring
Around the
tub, an
awful thing.
She turned ‘round trying to
escape
All the nasty things that she
hates,
The mold, the scum, the black
mildew,
And then the toilet came in
view.
The
worst of the
worst, she just stared,
Did William give
a care?
This seat he sat
on growing stuff
Gross green
things, Mary’d had enough!
She straightened
her skirt, smoothed her hair
Wishing she’d
ne’er taken the dare
Her friends were
right, he was a pig,
She
should’ve
known he was too big.
Larger than
life, but not very clean,
He’s quick to
love, every girls dream.
But now she knew
and soon would warn
Others against
William’s bathroom scorn.
Strephon’s
Secret
While getting ready in the dorm,
He noticed that a light was on.
Dear Strephon, ne’er knowing more,
Peeked to see what was in store.
For this, the room of Celia
Was full of paraphernalia.
T’was much more than a dirty sock;
And Strephon? Well, his world was rocked.
First crawling o’er the piles of clothes,
A clipper for her dirty toes
Was lying next to the front door
With crusty nails sprinkling the floor.
Pleading with himself, “Stop this now!”
Strephon threw up in his mouth.
But then, it seemed, it was too late,
For this opportunity must be fate.
To expose this creature to the world,
What vile animals are these “girls.”
It seemed she ne’er washed her plates;
For scattered ‘round the room, they’d wait:
Easy Mac stuck to the side,
Or ramen noodles rotted inside.
Turning ‘round, to the left
He saw what he’d come to hate best.
In the sink, what looked like a rat,
Well more like a carnivorous cat.
‘Cause in the sink, a pile of hair.
Sat rotting in the drain down there,
Collecting dirt, debris, and mold.
Celia’s truths would soon be told.
It was like Strephon always knew;
The female species he did rue:
Always putting on an act,
While none of their beauty stems from fact.
Wanting again to explore,
Strephon just found more and more.
A laundry bag of dirty clothes,
An electric clipper for the nose,
Stuck to her desk, a piece of toffee,
A textbook covered in old coffee.
A lotion for removing hair,
Multiple stains adorned her chair.
Strephon could not believe himself,
Seeing cigarettes upon her shelf.
And then, seeing the worst of all,
Strephon tried hard not to fall.
Balled up in the corner of the room,
Sitting there in all its gloom,
A pair of dirty underwear
Weathered, used, maybe shared.
The thought of tulips sickened Streph
He would share this, like all the rest.
Oh yes, for he was in the zone,
Strephon grabbed his camera phone.
With one flash here and one flash there,
Strephon knew it’d be quite clear.
When he exposed this to the world,
No one would go near such a girl.
And since Strephon was clearly vexed,
He close his eyes, sent a mass text.
Going back to his room, filled with hate,
He intended to sit there and wait.
And wait he did, and I would say
His life changed drastically after that day.
For everyone had got his text,
But one, one out of all the rest
Did not find this text humorous.
For this one person was Celia.
Sick of whispers, and the stares,
She ran up seven flights of stairs.
To the roof, to take a stand.
Taking the matter into her own hands.
“I have an announcement, to you I plee
To shut your mouths and listen to me.
I am aware of what’s been said
And of course, I wish Strephon dead.
But instead of crying in my room,
I’ll make some sense of this gloom.
To tell of such a gruesome tale,
Strephon must really hate females.
And have you ever wondered why
With no girl, he has lied?
I come here friends to state today,
Alas, the obvious, Strephon is gay!”
Taking Back the Lock
To thee who hath stolen my golden lock:
I will give thee ‘til the chime of the clock
To return my most cherished possession
If not, I will teach you a good lesson.
Taunts and sneers are a daily endurance
Without my lock, I stay in a trance.
Dreams of chastity no longer plague me
My innocence taken away by thee.
My muse is gone and I awake at dawn
Normal, no more, for I do not know morn.
Ariel is but a past memory
But obtaining my lock will set me free.
Only but a man would put a price on hair
Now there is none, and all would sit and stare.
I should have listened to the oracle,
Oh, the sweet sylph that was invisible.
First, the Baron will have to pay for the crime,
But, he isn’t worth the pain or the time.
Oh, how I loved my beautiful lock,
The envy of all in the social block.
All riches could not measure the value
Nor give the amount of praise it is due.
My mane is more that the battle of Troy,
I am naked, exposed, no longer coy,
Ravished by the insolent, the Baron,
A ruined, version of Rose of Sharon.
Aren’t I the “Fairest of all Mortals?
It has been proven through epic quarrels.
How to devise a plan to recapture
The Lock has to be simple and pure.
It has to be natural, but clever,
Long lasting and remembered forever.
Though it is gone for all eternity,
Revenge consoles me, the lock not retrieved.
The Rape of the Lock:
Revisited
What terrible outcomes the act of lust brings to fruition
With seldom a soul feeling close to contrition
If dear friend Pope could see young ladies this way
With Rapes of all kinds being inflicted each and every day
He would shudder with horror, click his tongue with disdain
Draw his heroine close to ease away the pain
Meanwhile, today’s Belinda in her dressing room prepares
Doing all that will earn her appreciative male stales
She draws satisfaction not from what she sees
Swathed in a dress that falls well above her knees
Glittering stones adorn her ample bosom like a wreath
A corset so tight she will dance, but not breathe
Shoes that resemble the weapons of old
A quick sip of something strong to chase away the cold
Belinda has been taught from a lifetime full of liars
That confidence is something one exudes, but never acquires
She sees flaws in herself the human eye cannot perceive
She defines herself through the amorous glances she receives
Shining dust and pale batter brushed on her face like sinister paint
A mask she has hid behind for years without any trace of complaint
Belinda smears another layer of rouge onto her lips
Watches the gentle sway of her much-despised hips
Like Helen of Troy she sees sets herself in a rose-colored haze
Wanted for a genetic gift instead of her ways
A horn sounds below, into her boat she stumbles
Through the light-filled city the town car rumbles
Her sylphs, far from virgins, quickly assume their roles
As guides, critics, and fellow fun-loving souls
They travel in packs and watch out for their own
But each is damaged as the next and is nothing alone
They laugh, posture, snap photos and scream
As the carriage slowly drifts along the asphalt stream
At last! The entrance before the masquerade ball
Belinda and her sylphs wander into the hall
Thundering music and brightly colored drinks
A crowd too concerned with what perfect strangers think
Each trying to capture a suitable mate
Or, in his absence, tonight’s delicious date
Belinda’s kohl-lined eyes scan the crowd
Searching for approval in an orgy so loud
Behind her, a gentleman watcher stares
Taking in her generous curves, her complexion so fair
He presses himself behind her and whispers into her ear,
“You are the loveliest creature on earth, my dear.”
Belinda’s joy almost bursts through her chest
But she decides a maintained composure is best
He takes her hand and leads her out onto the floor
As eagerness and willingness radiate out of her every pore
The two perform a haphazard, sloppy set of steps
As the hours on the clock continually crept
The bustling crowd heaves, Belinda crashes to the floor
Her spiky shoe colliding and shattering to her horror
Belinda’s hand finds her mouth as her horror unfurls
Her greatest and most precious link to the outside world
The Baron has stolen her purse and her phone, that rodent
Everyone she knows, her lifeline, gone in a moment
He allowed himself to be sucked into the crowd
Hot tears streak Belinda’s face – she cannot find him now
Her sylphs remove themselves from their men and rush to her side
Cooing and dabbing her face as composure begins to slide
The girls lead Belinda out, throwing contemptuous glares
Reveling in the sight of concerned stares
Belinda’s tears stop flowing, but she aches inside
A chasm of insecurity no face paint can hide
She will buy a gleaming new phone the very next morning
No one will know of her public mourning
Fill it with numbers, arrange her week
Never of the Baron again will she speak
Trifle things, they matter not in this age
All easily replaceable in this gilded cage
Loneliness and fragility smothered with shallow joy
Reveling in the excited buzz wrapped around a new little toy
With opportunities stacked far into the sky
All the world available at blink of an eye
Why should one sit around, mutter and mope
When drowning sorrow in merriment is the only way to cope?
Belinda will be belittled again in any case
By men who seek more locks for their trophy case.
Ode to Joy
(Inspired By
Collins’ “Ode To Fear”)
Strophe
What
lovely hands
Their Muse possess
A sweet,
inviting,
warm, caress
That
gives the mind
a sweet reprieve
From
doubting hopes
it can’t believe
Oh Joy! Sweet giving Dove,
You dance, you sing of Love!
Your
face a
priceless painting and just as rare
For few
have seen
you dwelling there
Inside
but few, a
simple heart won’t do
Your
chaste pleasures given to a chosen Few.
But in Their luck you also bring
Pleasure,
Love,
Bliss, and more to sing
A
Sirens’ song to
tame the mind,
And
dreadful Fear it
seeks to bind,
So all
that’s left
by dawn’s light hour
Your
simple image, a fragrant flower.
Oh,
Thoughts of past
and future gone,
for you, JOY, the present, what happy
pawns!
Epode
Since
the dawn of
time few have known Her well
And yet All seek to know Her spell.
The
whole of Man in
lust have fought
To have
said muse to
guide Their thought.
What is
felt when
she looks upon Their face,
Her
divine presence from a higher place?
And They must feel life come complete
And
tasks of men They must unseat.
She
comes without a
thought to haste
An
overwhelming lite embrace.
With Her
cloudy
eyes, only few She’ll see
The rest
left to
uncertainty.
What is
cherished
most dear by her
Is not a
strong and
careful thought,
But when
it is sweet
bliss occur
The
world and life
forgot.
And what
of Men
without her gaze
These
lost with
heavy hearts to bare?
Leaves
Fear and Pity
souls to raise
The many
fall into Their care.
And its all too easy for
Them to miss,
No
strong browed Greeks, or Englishmen
Among
those chosen
for her kiss
Who live
their lives
on edge of pen.
Antistrophe
Yet stay
away you
selfish leach
Muse
with nothing
true to teach
And Though your only wish; to show you’re kind
To take
your hand,
I’d lose my mind.
Silly
girl, how thin
your simple view
Holds in
what’s soft
but not what’s true.
The tiny
Pope of
England and
The one
who courted
fear can stand
A
testament to lives
of those
Who
passed you over
and then arose
With
Fear, Fury,
Pity and Pain
A life
immortal they
have claimed
Passion,
Pleasure,
Bliss, if dare I dwell
Forgotten
to a dark and putrid cell.
To un-exist, there is no worse a cage
No bars,
no death to
mock no age.
Perhaps
in time when
man is new
I’ll
take to want a
kiss from you.
But your
fickle
sight left behind
The
people who I
must remind
That I
exist and
must be known
For
works of art I
call my own,
Like the
Greats,
save no happy place for me
I take
my Cypress
Wreath, I’ll let You be!
An Essay on Dining
‘Tis hard to say, what can be better than this
The NC State Dining Hall- true, utter bliss.
Grab your goblet, a friend, and make them ring
Have your fill o’er anything and drink like a king.
Given hot, infested plates on which to serve
All of the cooks prepare with an easy-going nerve.
On a special occasion one can hear music in the air
More than a dining hall, a clown less than the fair.
Pope, “First follow NATURE, and your judgment frame”
Can you follow what you eat? Seems like a silly game.
Or maybe the Brit is talking about all of our desires-
To find a mate and eat and survive with our fires.
It seems that there may not be a better place
To fulfill these longings and keep on the race.
For if sustenance you seek, then that you may find
In forms of a well-balanced regiment of the kind
That has every step of the pyramid learned so young
But still excites the mind and dazzles the tongue!
But if a mate is indeed really your heart’s want,
There is no better place to inspect the public flaunts
Of singularity among the most educated girls
And upon close look, there are indeed several pearls.
If it may be the last of your desires- to keep yourself warm,
Then you have no better place, not even your dorm.
For with bodies and cooking and the city alive,
One finds that he cannot do anything but live and thrive.
We find Pope’s Ancients not so different than our own,
Kruger is the man who sits upon our throne.
For Horace and Vergil wrote epics that were created to be
Transcendent of time and last for all eternity.
Well our fellow John, back from Sweden he came,
To create our buffet and cement his place of fame.
It started in the North, but word quickly spread around,
And people all over the place eventually saw and found
That true Nature could be found in a stylized hall
With people who love and drink and never seem to brawl.
In his last stanza, Pope talks of Nature’s Masterpiece
Which I now see is a place of hope and joy, a place of feasts.
In all my days I have never found a better place at all
To enjoy my loves at the NC State Dining Hall.
Parody
of Jonathan Swift’s
“A Description of a City Shower”
A
Description of Grit and Grime
It
will take two swift and satiric Eyes
To
mark the Muck that Ugliness implies:
For
crawling ‘neath ev’ry
good
and pretty Thing
Lies a brown stained, stinking and wretched Ring.
‘Neath
our Nails and between our Locks of Hair
Clean
Water turns and to Sewers do fare.
There
meet Celias, Bettys,
Dulmen alike
For
whiskered Strephons to watch and dislike.
While
Wife makes Supper her long Locks hang
When
soon thereafter the Telephone sang.
In
her Rush, o’er the Pot, a Strand does dance,
Which
Husband eyes, and then, ends the Romance.
She
hurries away, her Mane in her Wake;
Husband
left alone to rail and to shake.
Neither
to ponder the Strands left behind,
Bearing
the Code ‘cause the Dust left them blind.
The
Root of all Beauty is Grime and Grit,
From
whose earthen Bed sprouts well-seasoned Wit.
Like
the foamy Goddess fond of Myrtle
Sprung
from Genitals with Love in Girdle.
Or
like Dr. S—, who could not lift it up,
Then
wrote two Pieces on Queans and drown’d
Pups.
Well
read by Gentlemen in spruce Attire,
Who
often Queans and Secretaries hire.
In
crisp Suits CEOs have Soap to spare,
Needing
not Dove, but a simple Prayer.
‘While,
the Welfare, if they had enough Dimes,
Would
with Ivory wash a thousand Times.
Every
Sunday on park Benches they toss;
Kids
frolic in fascination of Gross.
Mothers
white out their Children after Play
And
scrub their Hides raw to keep Dirt at bay.
Pure
and full of Cheer after the tenth Game,
Mothers
glaring thro’ the Glass God will blame.
A
Sinner asks if Scum thinks Himself clean,
As
his liquored Breath seeps thro’ the thin Screen;
Things
are not as they always will appear:
The
drunken Priest, instead, asks for a Beer.
One
advised for every accusing Bore,
Against
Wit, train th’ other to adore,
And
Homer to incite for Nature’s Guide
To
regard Mother Earth’s Funk all in stride.
For
there is more to Dirt than meets the Stare,
Like
Filth, Crud and Excrement everywhere.
The
Butcher, see, may also sweep the Swine
Though
more pure than all impure Things combined.
The
Beholder’s Eye is quite the fair one:
All
Beauty’s Beauty becomes all undone,
And
all Aromas permeate from Dung.
Imitation of Jonathan Swift: Brad is Schooled
So sounds the ringing of the trying Bell,
No longer may Brad in anxious Slumber dwell,
For the bright Horizon sparks Day anew,
In the sunny Glow, Passages ensue;
Alas every Journey starts with a Tread,
And his first of Steps is that out of Bed.
But ho! Apollo’s Chariot rides high,
Has Brad been held by the Lotophagi?
No Time has he now to bathe, primp, or prune,
Brad hit the Hay until the day hit Noon,
Ante Meridiem is with the Past,
As shall be his Class, ‘less he scurries fast.
Few others for Brad have Admiration,
And now he is lacking Sanitation,
Going out on the Town the Night before,
Has now left him with Something to abhor,
Queasy bowels filled with spirits and beer,
Whose Vapors ensured a Headache severe,
Tossing on what yesterday was laundry,
The level of his muck has no bound’ry,
Slightly heavyset, inept at the quick,
Except the swift Beads of Sweat dripping thick,
The finest Cloth dare not drape his Shoulders,
Stains and Spots yield the Stink of old Odors,
Ten
to spare,
Brad on
Blue in the Face, he shan’t wager his Odds,
The Smoking Carriages roll on past Brad,
The sight makes those nonwalking Passers glad,
Some Passengers: “Let him ride for a Spell?”
Yet All speed off when struck by the Smell,
The ling’ring Dust adds to the Grit and Grime,
Three Ticks now the Count, about out of Time.
The Dirt and Stench a Siren to the Flies,
Who now swarm around their heavenly Prize,
Though Brad feels not so divinely inclined,
He now begs Chronos for Time to rewind,
He implores Hermes for traveling Speed,
And
to
Poseidon, for a
Brad’s Hope uplifted with the School in Sight,
Perhaps the End to this pitiful Plight?
Running he dashes, still slower than most,
Still enhancing the Aroma he boasts,
As Brad bursts in through the Classroom main Door,
The Momentum tosses him on the Floor,
Finding himself thrown at the teachers Feet,
Wrinkling her Nose as though at spoiled Meat,
The smelly Interruption has her peeved,
“Excuse me Mr. T___ , you need to leave!”
The Reasons that Induced Lady
M_______ to
Write a Poem call’d “The Reasons that
The Lady rising with the Sun,
Before she spoke with anyone,
Sleepily staggered ‘cross the hall,
To’er dressing room and sat ‘mongst all
Her servants who before the dawn,
Whilst dew was forming on the lawn,
Whilst th’Sun and Lady in their beds,
Had fairies dancing ‘round their heads,
Prepared the room for th’morning’s task
Of fast’ning the Lady’s public mask.
Celia, the maid charged with her hair,
Laid out the combs with special care;
One for straight’ning, one for curling,
And (this one makes the Lady surly)
One to untangle knots and twists,
One to remove the lice and knits
That teem and thrive with no regard
For th’Lady’s comfort, just the lard
That glues the wig to th’hair steadfast,
(Whose union ‘bout one week will last.)
And (just in case inside the hair
A mouse is found a’nesting there)
Good Celia placed upon the stand,
In easy reach of her right hand,
A cheese wedge which, when placed about
The hair, will lure the rodent out.
Dear Betty worked into the night,
An alchemist by candlelight.
With mortar, pestle, she did grind
Each ‘gredient that one would find
In the make up for the Lady’s face.
Here’s how she made the powder base:
She took the lead that weeks before
Was boiléd long in vinegar,
And laid to rest inside a bed
Of stallion dung. And when the lead
Was white and very malleable
She ground it with a tea-spoon full
Of perfume so the Lady’s face
Would smell like flowers in a vase,
Not like the wrong end of a horse.
She next prepared the rouge of course.
And last the patches she did cut
From taffeta to cover ruts
And pock-marks on the Lady’s face,
They’re glued then covered with the base.
But Strephon, drinking ale last night,
Overslept the morning’s light.
His sacred duty he forgot:
The empty’ng of her chamber pot.
So Lady M______ sat down,
And whilst her maids were bustling ‘round
She opened up a book of rhyme
To occupy her idle time.
The book, writ by a Doctor S____,
Was given to her as a gift
Two years ago, and just now she
Brought it down from th’library.
The poem seemed appropriate,
Since it was set where she then sat.
She wondered what this man would say
‘Bout women and their day to day.
But reading she could not believe
Th’vulgarities that he conceived.
He daréd to describe the place
That seemed to her a sacred space
In such a way that one would think
That every English woman stinks.
The more she read the more she thrashed
‘Til Betty’s rouge looked like a rash,
And Celia’s combs could not make straight
The hair of a Lady so irate.
Poor Strephon woke up with a jolt
And to the dressing room did bolt.
And waiting there he listened in
And heard inside so loud a din
He figured he could sneak inside,
Remove this brown stain on his pride,
And leave before the Lady knew
And had him flogged and fired too.
What other job could Strephon get?
His skills consist of carrying shit.
So ‘cross the room did Strephon crawl
Behind the Lady, ‘gainst the wall.
The Lady, meanwhile, standing next
To th’chair, was yelling, angry, vexed.
Her maidens knew not what to do
‘Cause each was only halfway through.
Her hair well styled on her left side,
Her right would give a lion pride.
The right half of her face was done
Quite nice with makeup. But, now on
Her left side were found streaks of red
And random spots of powdered lead.
The Lady could not be calmed down
She ranted, raved, and paced around.
“This Doctor writes with pure disdain
For woman-kind, and worse, he feigns
To moralize some higher truth
And ‘ttempts he to retain some couth.
When really he disparaged each
Procedure used to help us reach
The ‘Ideal Beauty,’ so it’s called.
But, please dear Betty, do recall
To me the first person to say,
‘The perfect woman looks this way:
Wavy hair, blonde, piled up high.
Who cares if she can’t walk upright?
The whitest face. The reddest lips.
The thinnest waist. The biggest tits.’
Remind me Betty, if you can.”
“’Twas Petrarch, ma’am.” “That’s right, a man.
A man invented every tool
In this room found, each one so cruel.
This powder on the table here,
Which you so diligently smear
Upon my face, it tingles much,
And makes me dizzy, causes such
Incred’bly painful headaches too.
A man ‘twas it that first did brew.
And who’s idea was it to spread
This lard to bind wigs to our heads?
‘Twas not a her, my dear, but him.
We do this not for us, but them.
“And men, they too, will put on airs.
Their wits like to the clothes we wear.
Inside this Doctor’s room, I’ll bet,
You’ll find a stick of rouge, still wet
From use to make his lips rosy.
Why he’s the bold epitome
Of an’Englishman and hypocrite.
But this to me is worser yet:
I’ve never met a Doctor that
Was so enamoréd with scat.
What does he think? Of course we shit!
He need not make a scene of it!”
Poor Strephon, shocked by this last thought
Did overturn her chamberpot.
And when she heard the clam’rous sound,
Toward Strephon she did turn around.
A deaf’ning silence filled the room.
The Lady, seemingly consumed
With anger, stared right at the lad.
The maidens, knowing she was mad,
Their giggles struggled they to hide.
Poor Strephon stood there petrified.
And after what to him did seem
A lifetime, then the Lady leaned
To Celia, Betty and she said
“One of you go and tell Lord Ed,
Today I won’t be joining him.
The other fetch paper and pen.
And ready the study for the day
I have a lot of things to say.
And Strephon, you are lucky, for
There’s other men that vex me more.
This mess you made, it could be worse.
Here, clean it with this vulgar verse.”
An Imitation of the Work of John Dennis
That Relationship Method is the chief Thing in a Database System, and that all Relationship Methods are either Non-Relational or Relational
Before we engage
in the discussion that is the topic of this essay, let us define a
database
system, since many different perspectives on the subject exist among
both
technical and non-technical observers.
A database system is a structure of computerized data that provides for the storage, cataloging, and retrieval of information. Let us explain the functionality of a database system with more detail.
Since a database system is a structure of computerized data, it is therefore a virtual object on a computer system. Given the virtual nature of the database system, it is clear that the tool of its operation is a computer system. It is also well-known that the use of records to store the lowest-level groupings of data is an inherent quality of a database, since these records are used to both store and retrieve information to and from the database in an orderly manner. A database is a database because it is orderly and efficient; it has the capability to organize and search its own contents. The types of data stored within the records of a database are only locally relevant to the records themselves – and therefore they are irrelevant to the operation and structure of the database system as a whole – because they simply segregate the different pieces of information stored in a record. Within the database system is a relationship method that determines how the database is structured and how its data interacts during insertion and retrieval.
A relationship method is thus the defining characteristic of a database system, and consequently must be present and consistent throughout each database; for without a relationship method, a database cannot exist and data is simply aggregated in a flat data storage system. Although a flat data storage system is indeed a real concept, it is inefficient and ill-suited to scalability of the data it holds. Accordingly, let anyone who analyzes a data storage system, where information must be retrieved and manipulated, conclude, that if the system is without a relationship method, the data system is poorly designed and ineffective as a tool for data storage and retrieval.
There must be a relationship method in every database, and more relationships between different categories of data provide for more effective data storage and manipulation, unless the relationships and categorizations are too numerous and unwieldy for the data being handled. Thus, it is clear that when relationships are used to structure a database system in the “relational” relationship method, relationships must be consistently used throughout the database design. However, this structure is not applicable to the data managed by every database system. Accordingly, there must then be two distinct relationship methods: the relational method previously described, and the non-relational method. I call that relational relationship method, whose clear and effective structure binds data grouped into several tables within a single database; and I call the relationship method non-relational, when its nature causes the data within the database to be grouped into a single or multiple unrelated tables. As a database developer reaches the pinnacle of their training, they can use a large number of effective relationships to manage large quantities of data in massive databases using the relational relationship method. However, a talented database developer recognizes when such relationships are not suited to the data being managed, and thus uses a non-relational relationship method for to allow their database system to handle the data storage and retrieval.
And thus I have shown that the chief thing in a database system is the relationship method of the database. However, the reader should note that the discussion herein regards database systems in general, according to their relationship methods. The actual data stored in the database records is completely left to the discretion of the database designer and the application at hand. The relationship method of the database is the chief thing in the body of a database system, whether relational or non-relational; without it, a database is nothing but an aggregation of data.