ST. AGNES’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Thus wrote John Keats in monstrous long drab dirge, But not, as might be thought, 'bout shagging sheep, But no, about some virgin with the urge, To dream of her true lover in her sleep. It tells of Madeline, who, silly child, Has heard strange legends of this spectral day, And with such fancy notions she's beguiled, For saintly revelation thus to pray. Now Maddy's daddy's organised a ball, And many hope to grope what Maddy's got, But gentle maid cries "Fuck off to you all!" And leaves the bash with pure unsullied twat. In bedroom she unbuttons and unties, And shimmies till her chemise hits the floor, Then kneels to pray, and sees not gleaming eyes, That peep through slightly open closet door. (These pentametric iambs make me sick. There's one too many feet in every line. But parodists like me must learn the trick, And just be glad it's five feet and not nine.) Where was I? Yes. This apple has a worm, And lustful Porphyro is hid within The cupboard and he's craving that his sperm Will find soon its release into her quim. Who's Porphyro? He's randy, mad and bad. A drunken wastrel, Mad's dad knows him well. And hates to hell that damned elusive cad. But he's let in by servant pimper Nell, He leaps upon the bed wherein she lay, And plunders every orifice in sight, And then before the dawning of the day, They steal away like robbers in the night. Well Keats, romantic moron, leaves it here, Implying happy future for the kid; In fact they're off on steamer to Tangier, And Maddy's sold to Arabs for a quid.
St Agnes' eve = January 20.
St Agnes is the patron saint of virgins, so is pretty well unemployed these days.
Keats' "The Eve of St Agnes Day" can be found easily enough on Google.
Monday, January 19, 2004