Blunt Wit

So as is my wont, I take a perfectly good poem and flush it down the drain and start all over like a pain. Today I’m amending Johnny Keats “Ode to a Grecian Urn” in my own inimitable style. Someday I will get off my arse and put it up as a podcast. So without further ado …

Ode to Grecian Toilet

Thou still unflush’d urn of quietness
Thou foster-pot of silence and slow time,
Porcelain historian, who canst thus expel
A smelly tail more stinky than our rhyme:
What seat-tring’d legend haunts about thy oblong shape
Of defecating deities or mortals, or from both,
In Tempe, Arizona or the dales of Arcadia, Texas?
What men or gods are these? What maidens constipated?
What sad kerplunk? What struggle to evacuate?
What pipes and hand soaps? What wild ecstasy?

Unheard splashes are sweet, but those heard
Are sweeter still; therefore, ye soft pipes, flush on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more rear end’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditzies of no tone:
Fair youth, upon the chamber pot, thou canst not leave
Thy toilet, forever while thy ass be bare
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou’st piss, Though
Winning near the hole – yet, do not grieve;
She cannot aid, though thou hast not thy piss,
For ever wilt thou grunt, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy logs! That cannot roll
Over at all, nor ever bid the Ring adieu;
And, happy kerplunkist, unwearied,
For ever piping leavings for ever doo;
More nappy love! More nappy, nappy love!
For ever warm and runny not to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting and for ever grunting;
All expelling human passion far below,
That leaves a butt low-sorrowful and soil’d,
A burning sphincter, and marching runs.

Who are these coming to the orifice?
To what white altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer blowing chunks in the bowl,
And all her silken dranks of long island iced teas ingest’d?
What riddle down by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied by this flush, this pious swab?
And, riddled brown chunks, thy treats for evermore
Will violent barfed be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art chocolate, eaten e’er day before.

O bowel shape! Fair platitude! with screed
Of marble hue and lengthy perfection sought,
With forest leaves, the deed to wipe;
Thou, silent form, dost tease out of us, snot
As doth eternity: Cold Latrine!
When old stench shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst never apropos
Than ours, a friend of the man, to whom thou bay’est,
“Turd is truth, truth turd,” – that is all
Ye know in the water closet, all ye need to know.

And the original …

Ode to a Grecian Urn

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.