A Curious Miscellany of Items Philosophical, Historical, and Literary

Manus haec inimica tyrannis.

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

A Kristmas Karol

Around this time back in 2009 I shared with the world some of my Christmas haiku. I therein mentioned that I’m no great lover of Christmas. So, over fifteen years ago, when a friend held a "White Trash Christmas"-themed party and encouraged us to contribute original carols to be sung, I rose to the occasion and duly wrote a carol. Since the tide of my inspiration was unstoppable in those halcyon days, I also wrote those Christmas haiku, even though they were not strictly in keeping with the party’s theme. Both haiku and carol were hits. By popular demand, I now make the latter widely available for the first time. I should say that since I was never quite happy with the last verse, I changed it, which accounts for its mention of more recent events.

To tell truth, looking at this now, I gasp at my youthful genius and regret not further nurturing my obvious talents in this poetic direction. I indeed sigh for a road not taken. Tentanda via.

*    *    *    *    *

Good King Elvis

[Sung to the tune of “Good King Wenceslaus”]

Good King Elvis last passed out
On the feast of Stephen,
After eating fried pork rinds,
Fatty, crisp, and seasoned.
Brightly shone the moon that night
Upon the swimming pool,
When he heard stern nature’s call
To produce a stool.

Went he then to his “throne room”
And sat himself upon it,
Set his beer down by the sink
And then began to vomit:
Forth went pork rinds, forth went beer,
Forth went wine and Ex-Lax,
Ho-Hos, Twinkies, Pogos dear,
And thirty tabs of Xanax.

“Fails my heart, I know not why,
My lungs can breathe no longer,
My head grows hot, my hands grow cold,
The bathroom smell grows stronger.”
The Memphis Mafia drinking late,
Heard the noise, all seven.
They saw the King dead on his throne,
God’s new saint in Heaven.

“Praise we now our new-found King,
Praise the good Lord Elvis.
Seize a relic, anything,
A finger bone or pelvis.”
Make the journey, all ye folk,
The pilgrimage to Graceland.
Hear Him sing down from on high,
With his backing angel band.

Who was Jesus anyway?
Just a dirty hippie.
Who needs Allah or Yaweh,
When you’ve got Lord Presley?
Bow ye heathens, sing ye hosts,
Raise hymns up to the Stout One.
Praise the King and his friend Prince,
And bless Saint Michael Jackson.

No comments:

Post a Comment