Tag Archives: parody

We’re An American(a) Band

We used to play electro-punk,
Then tried out zydeco-funk.
But none of these things got us signed.
Another genre we did find!

We did an image overhaul,
And donned some dirty overalls.
We lifted from Neil Young’s “Harvest.”
Let’s go into a gang chorus:

Hey hey hi-yi hey-oh!
Ki-yi-yi yippee yi yay-oh!
Stomp your feet and yell oh ho!
That’s the way these songs all go!

We found a guy who played great fiddle.
And dabbled in washboards a little.
But he would not grow a beard.
Our interest in him disappeared.

We sing of backroads and old barns,
And spin our country bumpkin yarns.
Except that we all met at Choate.
But – hey, to some that’s quite remote.


I’d like a box to hide in;
I’d stay in it all day.
It might be tight,
without much light,
but that would be okay.

A box is pretty simple;
it doesn’t make demands.
It’s quite enough
to hold your stuff
when stuff’s not in your hands.

A box is many-sided;
it can be what you want.
Like a makeshift
plane or spaceship
in which you’re free to haunt.

So if you need to reach me,
for questions or for talks,
Just so you know –
I’m laying low.
Don’t bug me in my box.

Jesse’s Girl

Jesse’s got this friend.
He’s some kind of musician I guess.
He’s been hanging out with us
and I’m getting really stressed.
Jesse won’t tell him “fuck off,”
‘cuz he says that “Rick’s depressed.”

And he’s watching me with those eyes.
And he’s thinking gross things about me I just know it.
And he’s making random calls to me late, late at night.

I’m rethinking being Jesse’s girl.
I wish I wasn’t Jesse’s girl.
Why should I deal with something like that?

God Hates Parodies

(apologies to Ogden Nash)

The Westboro,
The Westboro!
Their signs are red and bright yellow!
Their words are rank and cowardly!
They’re sure Satan devours thee!
They’re protesting for you and me,
God hates you
If you
Their eyes are blank but pinwheely,
And crazy,

The Westboro,
The Westboro!
I saw them just three tweets ago!
Last night they were in Arkansas;
Tonight, they picket Omaha!
As you are sinning in your bed
They’re repeating what Fred has said.
They know
Just what God hates.
That’s fact.
So God loves those who just lack tact.

Song of the Break Room

I celebrate the break room. I sing of the break room.
I loiter at its table, in a chair from the conference room.
The original chairs have collapsed under the weight of lunchtime levity.

I lean and loaf at my ease observing the box of Munchkins left over from the
morning’s Executive Committee meeting.
Only the plain cake ones remain, unadorned,
fit only for consumption when desperation beckons.

I have seen this postcard tacked to the bulletin board.
I have taken in its representation of warmth, frivolity, intoxication.
I have studied it and presumed much.

Gentle breezes redolent of pineapple, perhaps Coppertone.
Turndown service. It evokes the luxury that one has paid to enjoy.
No cheese Danish in a bag hung on the door handle, this.

Its reverse side bears happy tidings, promises of swift return.
The person who sent it two years ago no longer works here.

What is it? Rank, gross, bewhiskered with gossamer strands.
Its container yields no answer as to its origin.
The door opens and closes by scores of hands attached to persons with no known
olfactory disorders, and yet this thing remains, fecund, hirsute but glistening,
releasing more of its stench as it is pushed further
back to make room for everyone’s Greek yogurts.

It is no one’s job to deal with it. It is everyone’s job.

Who is that cannot be bothered with rinsing a bowl?
Who goes through all prior motions,
filling, pouring, heating,
stirring, heating again, lifting spoon to purs’d lips
and chewing, swallowing, repeating these motions
until the vessel is emptied.

What is it that makes you feel as though you cannot
clean up after yourself?
Where do you think you are?
Where is your mother?

The yellowing Dilbert comic strip!
It tells of managerial passive aggression while its mere placement
bespeaks the same.
I cannot tell you directly what is irritating to me. Dilbert is my voice.
I am Dilbert, and yet I am also Cathy.
You will sort of know who I am and what I mean.

The Dance

(apologies to William Carlos Williams)

In my not-so-great memory, it’s a mess:
the dancer stands still, she stands stock still,
still staring at the floor, the wall, and at the
twaddle of her friends, who fidget and fiddle
sucking in their bellies (convex as her thick-
lensed glasses whose view they distort)
those heels and that dress doing nothing
to sway her. Shuffling and mumbling
about the Cafetorium, conscious of her butt, those
flanks must be covered to bear up under the
rollicking pressure, I cringe until unhinged
in my not-so-great memory, at this mess.

War On Christmas

…to the tune of John Lennon’s “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)”

There’s a War On Christmas,
or didn’t you know?
The liberals hate cookies,
and Jesus and snow.
And so on this Christmas,
don’t ever let go
of our dearest traditions,
down to the last “ho.”

‘Cuz it’s “Merry Christmas,”
not “Happy Holidays.”
Show those who who won’t say it
the error of their ways.

For this War On Christmas
happens every year.
Launch the tinsel missiles,
and arm the reindeer.
It’s JUST “Merry Christmas!”
Don’t take into account
New Year’s and Hanukkah.
(Kwanzaa doesn’t count.)

So it’s “Merry Christmas,”
not “Happy Holidays.”
Show those who who won’t say it
the error of their ways.

War on Christmas
If you say so
War on Christmas