Kevin's Watch

OK, I only had a lunch hour to do this, so here is a first attempt....

The Merchant of Venice Beach

Act III, scene ii

The scene opens on Venice Beach, CA. as our hero, the rastafarian "herbalist" has walked away from his cart and watched as fair Violet has slipped into the Limo of her father, Duke Caplet-Gel. He speaks to his friend who is finishing up his 100th chin-up and preparing to start his Ab Workout...

[Dreadlock]
Yo, Dude, I tell you what, we need to go
and crash that bitchin' party thrown by Vi.
With my large stash of Maryjane and Blow
the stacks of cash we'll make will reach the sky!
We'll need...

[Readon McBuff]
...a better plan, my lovesick friend,
if you would win the gentle heart of Vi's.

[Dreadlock]
How would you know? Each day and night you spend
surrounded by buff men flexing your thighs.
I tell you this babe's hot! And once I score,
the Santa Anna will not sigh alone!
We'll do it once and then (for you) twice more.
Our Sex tape will teach you to throw a bone!

[McBuff] (Flexing his prodigious biceps and pecs)
One thing, though, you'd be wise not to forget...
I am the BROTHER of your Violet.

[exeunt -- running]

That was hilarious, Doc. This one will be very difficult for me to write in old english dialect.

Thanks,

That was my attempt...to put it into sonnet form (complete with iambic pentameter and rhymescheme), without the singular person and using modern language without the "Prithee" and lack of Shakespearean wordage. My next attempt might be a bit more florid, if that is what is needed...

DoctorGamgee wrote: might be a bit more florid, if that is what is needed...

Not florid, man, horrid, [although combining them would be great, and I have an idea for that...which I hope doesn't inspire anyone else, so I daren't say more.]

Vraith wrote:

DoctorGamgee wrote: might be a bit more florid, if that is what is needed...

Not florid, man, horrid, [although combining them would be great, and I have an idea for that...which I hope doesn't inspire anyone else, so I daren't say more.]

Where pestulence can flow with wingéd speed
to flights imploding on the runway nine.
There shall the quintessence of the horrid heap.
and to a halt, in fireballs to grind...

(I think in this way...really I do!)

My final entry for this one...

Shakespearean Rhapsody:

Pray tell me, what is this before my eyes?
‘Tis truth perchance or some foul faerie dream?
Caught within this vortex truth and lies
Tumble round me, and as truth it seems.

Yeah, now, foul jelly, look with twinkling fraught
Upon sweet heavens patens found within.
For I, impoverished need no heedful thought
For hither and thither golden fates grow thin.
Wherever shouldst the winds of fates to blow.
I carest not; to me, it is just so.

My dearest Mother, forgive me I pray.
For what anon transpired, I confess,
A quintessence of dust, I killed today,
With Bardolf’s Pistol, placed against his tress.
And with light finger did I make an end.
To that sweet life, which only Gods can send.

O Mother dear, my journey didst but start
And yet my actions show it but a waste.
Dear Mother, let no teardrop from you part,
And should the morrow bring you not a taste
Of happiness at my return, go on.
As if thou hadst not known me ere anon!

Alas, dost tempus fugit; Woe is me!
And shivers down my back are running hence.
Awake my corpse yet feels the pain you see.
Adieu, cruel world, I go; but know not whence.

The grave it calls to make me face the right.
Alack, alas! Sweet Mother thinkest not
That turning back to dust doest me delight!
‘twere better that my birth pangs ne’er thee wrought!

<A simple tune on lute we now shall hear,
Perchance to speed us on excited, drear!>

What shrunken shade be this, hey nonny-no?
That dances hither, bonny, blithe and gay?
And tripping lightly does the fandango,
While springtime storms do flood me with dismay!

Of Galileo doest the chorus sing!
And Figaro, hey droll doll Derry ding!

A wretch I am, affection know’st me not!
“Ignob’ly born, impov’rished be his name!
Have mercy on him; we’ll vouchsafe his lot!”
Ah fickle fate! Shall I yet bear the blame?

Alas, poor boy, we may’st not let thee flee!
I must away!—Our ears hear not thy plea!
I’ll tarry not!—You’ll pay the piper’s fee!
Once more, I flee!—Bismilla take thee!

O mother, mother, watch as I take wing!
“Beelzebub shall his foul minion fling!

Away, Away! ‘Til break of day!

<If music be the food of Love, play lute!
And build a bridge with merry ‘toot-a-toot!’>

And thinkest thou canst stone me where I stand?
Or prey thee spittle in my drooping eye?
Perchance thou canst affection lonely strand
And in the dust, give me to sadly die?
Thou simple babe, thou canst me not offend!
For now I follow where the winds shall bend!

<The lutenist with fiery fingers strums,
While bass musicians play on fife and drums!>

Hey now! Ooh Yeah! Care I not a whim!
Therefore it stands for all who care to know:
I carest not, I carest not, not Me!
Wherever shouldst the winds of fates to blow.

Awesome! Awful!! Wow...

<If music be the food of Love, play lute!
And build a bridge with merry ‘toot-a-toot!’>

These were especially bad, I thought.

A Lamentation For Distant Grace

To be honest? A refreshing change of pace that would be, if then, massed the collective falls short and are not taken to task, to what should I desperate cling? The noble bearing of doing that asked (and beyond at times) so be it.

The constant wanderings that intersect my labors do run at improper times to distraction. And the sweetness offered in the suspected and expected reward...dashed again upon again (oh the humanity!) So be it. And to this I am left...the outcry admist the terrible and dark wilderness of mediocrity. But to my machine I must go...save me! Down! Down! Debased and cursed machine!

Twas a dream of qualified sucess, sucessive nights? Alack and alas! Woe is me! So be it.

As I break and go under - I ponder - why do they wander? And why not send all of them yonder? And despite such, I am to my respite. As some are much always.

(interlude)

And tonight the machine is as if consumpted, oh pity me! It would be a grumbling mob are we. Our masters (cruel! cruel!) have set to curse us upon this course. Of course we are not all blameless, so be it. Ah...feckless abandon is of the proper approach, or reproach? But to dream of a morrow (or is it marrow?) when just is ceded justice. It's just us that suffer. Suffice it that I have given all.

And if I fail, tis not due me any sympathy, but to somehow attain my goal? Coinage for my purse, my person to be sure, yes! And the trouble with the newest bauble? Failure heaped upon failure! All the pity more. Instead they dabble in that beyond our means, I mean the why not then, this better to quench our desire? Reward our efforts I say!

And why not speak to those who would rule? Aye, there's the rub...the daylight makes cowards of us all. So for now, we are serfs under an absent king. Yet we do not grow fonder. Not better, but like the aged vine we became bitter whence we are not harvested, but left for the crows. So fly away!

And now know this...I will not stand for it or kneel for you.

Nice one, Sarge!

Funny, Nullie.

Tech Support upon Avon

Ye Olde Tech Support - Good morrow, sir or madame, howeth mightin' thou be helpethed? For, I am the noble Sir Fixit!

Customer - What? uhhh.. my computer is broke.

Ye Olde Tech Support - Spaketh you thusly, for sooth! Tech Support, tech support I proclaim! Come, enjoin me with thou's cares and sorrows computer-wise!

Customer - What? Is this .. is this tech support?

Ye Olde Tech Support - Does not the crow cry in the woods at midsommar his lamentations heapethed up year round as to sayeth unto the world, heareth thee my tale? Verily it is so! I beg thee good sir, burden me with your woes.

Customer - Mmm... what? I uh... my screen is frozen?

Ye Olde Tech Support - Alas! Alack! Oh, more is the woes! Were the world less cruel and thou less its bitch! Verily and forsooth this is dire! What is the world but a stage and what this stage when the screeneth be frozen? And how come the players upon the set, joys, terrors, lusts on the sleeves thusly worn with utter conviction and lack of artifice if the set be'eth, as more is the pity, adjusted not in pitch and pith?

Customer - What?

Ye Olde Tech Support - Oh good sir, presseth the lowborn yet goodly button marked On/Off nestled upon the chassis of thy's nobleth device! What would a world be without the hand that hovers ever over the slate, ready to rubbeth, I say, all the travails, care and passions out with but a swipe? How deep our slumbers and how steady our dreams were it not so? But, press on, I say, good sir, press on!

Customer - Oh, that fixed it. Thanks.

Odds Bodkins, Ananda! Well done!

thank you folks. i wrote that many years ago. back in 95-96 julie tells me.

i was a machinist and was having trouble with my machine. being angry i wrote that in the log book for that particular machine.

they liked it so much the photocopied it and hung it on the office wall.

sgt.null wrote:i was a machinist and was having trouble with my machine. being angry i wrote that in the log book for that particular machine.

they liked it so much the photocopied it and hung it on the office wall.

AWESOME, sarge!

That is a completely awesome and classy way of creatively channeling anger... what a great idea.

better than storming off. i was a good machinist, better one than i had a machine.

Okay, I admit; I'm behind in my thread-reading.

Ananda wrote:Were the world less cruel and thou less its bi...

I -definitely- burst out loud laughing at this one... also, 3 or 4 times when I re-read it.

And then I looked back up and saw things I hadn't caught in this line:

ananda wrote:Ye Olde Tech Support - Good morrow, sir or madame, howeth mightin' thou be helpethed? For, I am the noble Sir Fixit! [emphasis added -Ed]

LOVE!

Also, I am all over Gamgee's idea of multiple-entries... as many entries as people want!

This is for Wayfriend.

That borders on AWESOME, Ananda...So BAD it's GREAT!!!!

Hopefully this "love poem"'s dreadful enough. I haven't had time to read any other entries yet, but I'll attempt to remedy this soon.



O fair maiden, an ode devout to thee shall I sing
Worthy to be harkn'd e'en by the land's high king
This melody upon my tongue, light as a lark's wing
My adoration to thee confess I 'neath the sun's fiery ring!

In a heart-shaped circle would I frolic around thee
E'en hip-deep in mongrel-muck on bended knee
Kiss thy hand; ah thy fingers so supple and wee!
Forsooth, I beg thee to join me on my heart's amorous spree!

Afore thy dulcetness wilt all the earth's roses
Into thy windward turn all the land's noses
To smell the mellifluous odor of thee in adoring poses
Ah, so intoxicating e'en in itsy-bitsy doses!

And oh, thy voice! Sultry as a dove's coo!
A gladsome springtime's blurrp-blurrp-bloo!
Ev'ry word diamond-shiny akin to unicorn's poo
O damsel dainty, sybaritic, thee I solemnly woo!

I drown into the deep, orphic pools of thine eyes
Bewitched beyond kenning by their fulgid cornflower guise
Alas! Soft as moldy porridge turn they e'en the minds of wise
Be it vespertide or high noon, sunwashed and nice!

A heavenly bliss for sore orbs be thy round, heaving bust
'Neath such ripe fruits, a mere mortal scantly containeth his lust!
Woe unto me, for ev'ry gloaming depart from thee yet I must
In my nocturnal reveries I for aye savor this sweet gust!

Thy skin so fair, ah that earth-vessel silken sleek
Fie and blood, ne'er, naught akin to a month-old cod's reek!
My craving gaze thy lush curves doth always seek
The sanguine blush of thy soft, fully rounded cheek

Because of thee would I fain slay a fire-breathing dragon
Then draught deep from thy secluded, secret mead-flagon
Barely can I hold my swelling fervor, nigh-on the size of a wagon!
Yet show thee shalt thy suer that he dost nay be but a runty capon!

Hie, let us gambol and make merry in this verdant glen
Romp gaily in the grass, o my succulent, toothsome house-hen!
Come, swoon and sigh with pleasance in my embrace's den
Let us forget the brooding ills and bogs of the worldly fen.

Yet behold, a spurning wouldeth render me utterly forlorn!
Akin to a little lambling, lost, cold, sodden, wholly shorn
Wend my way forth hence unseen would I, abandoned, grief-worn
On a pathway 'wards the Reaper's manors in th' dawn of th' new morn.

Wow, Zormie. That was brilliant!!!