two poems from
Parodies Everyone can Enjoy
(yet to be published)

MARGE FOR THE BITE BRIGADE

(parody of a poem by Eldred Laird Denison)

Half a lick, half a lick, half a lick
of a stale and a pale Argentine margarine,
that’s the state provision for the All-Tahitian Bite Brigade.
You four score and four more, one last lick of the marge, then you charge.
On their bikes in their spikes, they all rode, no one slowed
for a mile and a half, not a smile or a laugh;
no one spoke, every bloke biked for broke.
They must win this Peking big-eating grand contest
for country and history, unity and dignity, vanity and sanity.

Rivals to right of them, rivals to left of them,
rivals in front of them sniggered and swaggered.
Though riled, they smiled; then they stopped and then hopped
from their bikes. You four score and four more, go on charge,
yelled the Sarge. Show your greed, grab the feed.
Theirs not the right to flee; theirs but to bite with glee.
Do not shirk, get to work, try to fight for the right just to bite.
They devoured pies and fries, pork and stork, lamb and clam, jam and yam,
chicken, bacon, broad beans, sardines and other food that was good.

They emerged tall—the best; they submerged all the rest,
brushed aside the applause—some had died for the cause—
they turned back, left the pack, now no more the four score and four more.
Every job completed, that vain mob defeated,
they were left much bereft, what was left of the four score and four more.
Rivals to right of them, rivals to left of them,
rivals in back of them clapped and slapped them.
Theirs is a glory that’s so high; theirs is a story that won’t die.
Know the bold bites they made; Oh, the Gold Bite Brigade.

GORBERCHOCKY

(parody of a poem by Louise Coral)

He was Big Pig, the bigwig, the king of thingamajig
with a whirligig and a silly cig at a commie dig
who gimchled, kimjled, trumpled, thumbled
with the politburo politico incognito in indigo.
The poor bollogroves who sure borrow cloves
were all vimsy, whimsy, slimpel, shrimpel people
and the don ron outgrabbed, outstabbed the dirty rath.

‘Beware the Gorberchock, that dapper cock;
he’s a little itty-bitty nutty, my rosy-posy, burly girlie.
He chides and is red and hides by your bed.
He’ll boot you from your mansion; put you on a ration;
impoverish the bourgeoisie; abolish the monarchy;
dump you in prison for your religion
or gag you, drag you to a gulag, you ragtag gasbag
so destroy with joy this pesky pest with musky chest.’

She at once bought from a crass, lost Hun a glasnost gun
and from the erotica trade a perestroika blade—
now she'll rush to crush the gremlin of the Kremlin!
She shot him in his furry chest; he thought it was in merry jest.
She brought the sword down on his broad crown;
packed him with lead; hacked off his head;
then let the blood flood the bed and the blood was red.

With his well-bled head and her well-made blade,
she went galumphing back, then sent for Laughing Jack.
‘With no pain and no strain, it is plain you have slain
the Gorberchock, that blubber croc!
Oi, what a fabulous slay! Hello! Hooray!
Oi, what a frabujous day! Calloh! Callay!’
he chortled with mixed joy, then bottled the kitsch toy.

He was Big Pig, the bigwig, the king of thingamajig
with a whirligig and a silly cig at a commie dig
who had gimchled, kimjled, trumpled, thumbled
with the politburo politico incognito in indigo.
Rich now, the bollogroves snitch cows and euro coves.
Now trenthy, drendy, fatsy, patsy, they find it easy
though woozy to outmosey the Mafiosi and Yakuzi.