A burlesque of the first 14 lines of Milton’s Lycidas
Racing down, noisome smellers, ranking tunes
involving Aguilar, she never would.
I have the fair muchacha in my scope,
one two three, skip a rope,
jangling her starry chachalaca bling.
Elephant mane with scissored muffin wing
KYs me with a shmart shmeer ‘neath the hood.
For foamy bilge will seep that ever could,
coy phallarope and feckless bagatelle,
backgammon hound with pistol bright, eftsoons.
Dagnabbitall, we’re winners, are we not?
We know, we grow, and afterwards we gloat.
A flop, a scrannel pie, a flower from hell!
No one to ball, no one to fuck the goat.
