2012-02-03

Passion For Poetry

I love a good parody, how about you? For those of you new to poetry, a parody is where you write a humorous version of someone else’s poem for comedic effect. The idea is not so much to poke fun at the original work as to entertain with a more amusing version. I think I probably posted the poem from below in the past, but I figured starting out Friday with a laugh could only be a good thing. For those who’d like to see the original version, you can find the Creation of Sam McGee HERE.



The Refrigeration of Sam McGee
with apologies to Robert Service

There are strange things done in the noon hour sun
by the men who search for pot
The jungle trails have their secret tales
that would make your blood run hot.
The jungle nights have seen queer sights
but the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
we refrigerated Sam McGee.


Now Sam the man, was from Tinker’s Dam
up where the North wind blows,
Why he left his home way up North to roam
in this heat, God only knows!
He was always hot but the land of pot
kept him going forward still,
And he’d often say in his freaked out way
he’d find riches in Brazil.

On a summer’s day we were dragging our way
over the jungle trail,
Talk of your heat! We burned our feet
but we swore we would not fail.
Our eyes, we learned, were badly burned
from sniffing the jungle swump.
It was lots of fun, and the only one
to whimper was Sam the chump.

And that very night as we lay packed tight
in mosquito netting and beer
And our stomachs were fed and the stars o’er head
were dancing to our cheer,
He turned to me, “Hey, man,” says he,
“I’ll cash in this trip I guess;
And if I do I’m asking you
won’t refuse my last request.”

Well he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no
then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s this cursed head and it’s got me beat
till I’m burnt right through to the bone.
Yet taint being dead - it’s my awful dread
of the swampy grave that pains
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
you will freeze my last remains.”

I was so stoned, I couldn’t have known,
what I agreed to that night.
So we started on, flew right along;
but God! He looked all right!
He lay in the truck and I couldn’t deduct
the exact day that he died.
We didn’t know, it never showed!
But Death we couldn’t deny.

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid
and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
in my heart how I cursed that load!
In the long, long, nights, by our flashing light
while the parrots ‘round in a ring
Shrieked out their woe and wished for snow
-Oh God! How I loathed the thing.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge
and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed full of rust and I saw through the crust
it was called the Tilly May.
And I looked at it and I thought a bit,
and I looked at my burnt-up chum;
Then, “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry
“Is my freez-er-tor-eum!”

We shipped in ice not once, but twice
no longer did we tarry.
We packed him tight and sold his right
to the drugs he used to carry.
The day was hot at that morbid spot
and we wanted to get out of there
But a toast we drank to the man in the tank
and the sound would have curled your hair.

We didn’t grieve as we started to leave
but we turned right back once more
Back to the boat, not quite afloat
and my hand was on the door.
Just a peep inside was all we’d try
‘cause we thought he’d surely be crusted
So we took a peek, and out Sam leaped,
and said, “You all are busted!”

Sam the man, from Tinker’s Dam,
was in truth called Samuel Park.
We never suspected that resurrected
Sam would be a Narc!
In our cells we’ll lay to our dying day
never to see the sun.
Our mission failed and we were jailed,
but it sure was lots of fun!

There are strange things done in the noon hour sun
by the men who search for pot.
The jungle trails have their secret tales
that would make your blood run hot.
The jungle nights have seen queer sights
but the queerest it ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
we refrigerated Sam McGee.

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