-> "With Respect to My Dead Monkfish, Harold"
Original Song Title:
"The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald"
Parody Song Title:
"With Respect to My Dead Monkfish, Harold"
Felt lonely and bored, but the local pet store
Featured thousands of rats and canaries--
I checked out a few, sniffed a rabbit or two
And the fighting fish looked kind of scary.
There were hamsters galore, twenty-six turtles or more
It was getting on after four-thirty--
The buck-toothed teen girl who was sweeping said, "Thir,
There'th a fish over here'th awful purty."
She took me aside, her teeth glimmered with pride,
Saying, "This one'th a 'lophiuth gathtrophythuth.'"
I was taken aback, it was bloated and black,
With squashed head and short tail, I was not impressed.
The ugliest maw that a man ever saw,
Pointy chompers that might gnash your fingers--
The look in his eyes had me half-terrified,
But I couldn't decide, so I lingered.
I'm a curious type fellow, and asked, "How the hell
Can you sell such a gaping monstrosity?"
Of course the girl knew, she had more than a clue,
And replied with a slew of verbosity:
"Thith Atlantic fish maykth a fine taythty dish,
Tho you might hear it called poor man'th lobthter."
As she sprayed her spiel, that fat monkfish appeal
Approached that of a B-movie mobster.
When closing time came, I said, what's fishie's name?
She said, "We like to call him Old Harold."
With that I was sold, and pulled out my billfold
And I slapped down my forty-three fifty.
I loaded him up, bought a tankful of stuff,
Filters, gravel and tubes, plastic bubblers--
At nearly two feet, he looked pretty damn sweet
Smiling broadly next to my beer tumblers.
I'd take him on walks, had our man-to-fish talks,
He enjoyed the occasional trifle.
We soon became friends, and again and again
His advice proved acute and insightful.
I kept his tank clean, we were living the dream,
With only the finest saltwater.
Unfortunately, I had business to see to
And had to call up my friend's daughter.
"Feed once a day, here's his shrimp on a tray,
If he seems out of sorts, turn on Oprah.
I'll be gone for a week, have to give a short speech
At a high school in north South Dakota."
When I returned home, my Harold had grown
So large he was bursting his dwelling!
And fish-sitter Heidi was nowhere in sight
But her rotting flesh soon I was smelling!
He had taken her arm, caused a good deal of harm,
I reluctantly paid her prosthetics.
He couldn't survive such a trauma, besides,
He had feelings, and morals, and ethics.
He took his last breath, with the eye-rolls of death
He expired, my black fish in a barrel.
When Heidi comes by, there's a tear in her eye,
With respect to my dead monkfish, Harold.
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|How Funny: ||5.0|
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