|Quid quid latine dictum sit, altum videtur|
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D Mervin Ffingir writes, and having writ, moves on:
Sunday, June 04, 2006
“You are old, father Zig,” the kid made a moue,
“Your face is almost all forehead.
Yet you wear your hair long and tied into a queue—
Is that proper for someone so near-dead?”
“When I was young,” Ziggy said, (after kicking the lout)
“I visited the barber’s quite often.
But now that my keratin’s rapidly running out—
Why, I’ll take all that’s left to my coffin.”
“You are old,” said the brat, forgetting respect,
“Your hormones are a memory, god bless ’em.
But yet at the altar of love you genuflect—
Why do you persist in writing love poems?”
“In my youth,” said the sage, grinning into his beard,
“The point of the verse wasn’t futile.
What’s the point now? Why, haven’t you heard
Of that diamond-shaped blue pill, Sildenafil?”
Said the stripling, “Your playlist is years out of date—
You diss the pop music of this nation.
You tell us how your music was so bloody great—
But aren’t you the—heh–disco generation?”
Said the fossil, “I was easily influenced as a child,
I will admit I knew all the lyrics—
But surely you’ll grant this: disco never defiled
The ear as much as Bollywood remix!”
“You are old,” said the youth, “yet you still write a blog –
Why waste what’s left of your life?
Your fingers are arthritic, your mind is a fog—
Wouldn’t you rather spend time with the wife?”
“I have answered three questions, now kindly fuck off,”
Said the ancient, looking hunted and harried,
“With blogposts to write, trolls to be shook off,
Who the hell had the time to get married?”
The original poem is well-known enough to not need a reference, but just in case..
This is based on Lewis Carroll's delicious You are old, Father William, which, in turn, was a parody of Robert Southey's rather sanctimonious The Old Man's Comforts and how he gained them.
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