Yellow flowers….

Gathering up stuff from blogs past, it seems I’ve been quite prolific (I only started in 2007 – or maybe late 2006)….or maybe prolix is the word….? Regardless: you’re here; now read or bugger off….

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Here we go: Wordsworth hour. This first one isn’t mine; I heard it first from a guy at college:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high oer hill and dale
When all at once I saw a pub
And went in for a pint of ale.

….which I posted on one of Sam Jordison’s blogs on GU:

Sam went on to talk about the Grand Canyon, and the perils of lofty micturition; my version:

I wandered, desperate for a piss
Whilst walking by the Canyon Grand
Dare I let fly o’er the abyss?
Or should I use a rubber band….

….punctuation disputes intruded; the next will make no sense unless you read the latter bits of the blog; nevertheless I’m pleased with it:

I wondered ’bout that airborne kite
That floats on high oe’r “that’s” and “it’s”
When all at once I saw the light
And realised that “its” best fits…

….and so it goes: then, elsewhere, limericks came into play:

You’re a wonderful poet, dear Bill,
You immortalised me with your quill.
But my heart’s clouded greatly,
You’ve wandered off lately -
Are you hosting a new daffodil….?

Replied Bill to the lonely narcissus:
“In my absence, there’s nothing malicious.
I’ve been lonely floating,
Profoundly emoting,
But don’t say a word to the missus….”

….the final word (for the moment; there’s a lot of mileage left in Daffodils) went to this:

Eledils.

I parted lonely as a wandering day
That slowly winds and floats oer lowing hills,
When all at once the plod ploughs home his way
And leaves the host to darkened eledils….

….which is from here, a blog by Maxim Jakubowski:

….although earlier on that blog (a blog about litblogs), this erupted:

The Bad Writer’s Lament

I’m a wannabe, (gonnabe!) literary giant
With a highly original blog.
So what if the publishers ain’t that compliant?
I’ve a fan base – one man and his dog.

The hours that I’ve spent, phrases carefully drafted -
To be critically trashed begs belief.
But my fans know I’m good, they adore what I’ve crafted
(Though sometimes the dog gives me grief).

It’s beyond comprehension, my words not yet read
By a public that hoovers up trash.
You’ll regret the missed Nobel when this blogger’s dead
And his print outs (and dog) merely ash.

My talent unwonted, unrecognised, rare,
I percuss the hot keyboard all night.
And despite all those Jonahs, I really don’t care,
Gonna write, gonna write, gonna write….*woof!*

….d’you know, I have a feeling we may not have seen the last of Wordsworth parodies yet….