-> "The Waterbury Tales"
Original Song Title:
"The Canterbury Tales"
Parody Song Title:
"The Waterbury Tales"
Parody Written by:
Whan that Junne with hys sunshyn soote
The Capitol hath dazzled to the roote
And blossoms bloome on the cherry,
Then folk break in and bugge Waterbury.
A good WYF was ther, Mr. Mitchell's owne,
Wel koude she carp upon hir telephone.
She lyk to tel the papers, quote-unquote:
"Dorst noon can mak myn housband a scapegoate."
The MITCHELL was a stout and placyd type,
Ful byg he was, and suckyn on hys pype.
"The Whyt Hous Horrors had not my accorde,
But all was mete to reelect Milord."
The CHAIRMAN oft wolde set hys brows to crymple.
He clept hymself a Country Lawyer Symple.
A badde man or fals wolde hym mak syckyn,
Men koud hym trust for used car or fryd chyckyn. (1)
The BAKER was a faire and deep-voicd boye,
Had wed of royl blood from Illinoye.
So certeynly didst Howyrd pleas the crowd,
A star was born (lyk Lancelot of Loud).
A CLERK OF LAW was too, a John of DEANE,
He borrowed gold to wed the Maid Maureene.
Hys memory was ful; of dates koude answyr,
"I warned Milord," quod he, "of Creepyng Cancyr."
The LYDDY has a mustache and byg chartyse
For kydnappyngs and wyrtaps and tartyse. (2)
What tale koud tell? Is thys some kind of Nutte?
In gaol y-sits and keeps hys lippes shutte.
ULASEWICZ ther also was, forsooth,
Koud wel hide gold in any olde phone booth.
Koud gette Hernya (shold watch hys steppen).
From so much hevy laundry bags y-schleppen.
The LORD he reigned in Ovl Ofys (3) sphere,
Ful oft strove he to mak thyngs parfait clere. (4)
But wonder, though it get him legal scrapes,
He, verraily, refus to clere The Tapyse.
A HALDEMAN ther came, a crew-cutoon,
Foks seyd he ran the Whyt Hous lik a Hun.
But strang, whan he befor Committee satte,
So mild was he as any pussye catte.
The EHRLICHMAN explan the word "coverte,"
(He look lyk he eat babys for desserte).
He trow, to sav the Nation from the Pynkes,
"Milord hath Rights Divine to burgl Shrynkes." (5)
Thus spak the PATRYK GRAY, a baldyng guye,
"Ful wel I loved to serv the FBYe,
But shame, I burnd the fyls and sore hav synnd
And dizzy-grow from hangyn slow, slow in the wynd."
Thys was the merrye crew, on TV cache.
And who can say if cumen in impeache?
Nor yet whych man will ansyr to what cryme?
No oon can know, at Thysse Poynt in Tyme.
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|How Funny: ||5.0|
|Overall Rating: ||5.0|
|Total Votes: ||12|
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