Hory, hory art thou, o munificent lard
A N C I E N T L A R D
To whum we've sung muny a robust canticle.
Of thy greatness there be not a shrank
Fer thy wisdom ist oft spoke of
By befiggeled ones ah long ere'
An' thy glyrie hast been caeld by
Crispy, lithesome angelic whuns
An' even upon this earthly paradise
Strumpeted bi truppets ah mighty weight
An' inful inebriants a dancin' nearly straight
Towards thy cathedrals ah mighty yarn
Strung with thee bestriggeled heralders
Ah Exitel Castle - an' smoked devil's arm.
Thy majesty ist indeed grate
Und thy splundear hath made both Sonrise und
Moonshine – un' cockeley rusters sing all night.
Thy noble pasteurs have oft' said that only a
Fraction ah thy glyrie ist manifest
And the rest, like hersumly nimble virgins,
Caerefuly veiled in frambesia.
Yet thou art a feisty one - o munificent lard
As all thy people proclaimeth
Whun toasting on the nimbus ah time:
Gloria in excelsis aeternum in es daeimaon:
Thy imperium rests upon tha sky.
- Sir Newfield ah Hampton Courte
||There's something decadent about this poem that I'm not comfortable with.
Part of its beauty is that it is not such a serious work. I believe the author is inviting readers to avoid intellectualization |
and simply allow the words carry our imaginations as images arise and fade.
|| It is curiously retro. The imagery in this poem invokes a scene by Pieter Brueghel.
|| Ah, yah're too flattering: 'tis murely absurd.