Thursday, 11 July 2013

Snob do not gloat

And so my parodies doth continue.

For a while now I have been craving to take the piss out of snobs. It is the one type of human that makes my palate itch most uncomfortably. Seeing that I have been using parody as a form of writing exercise I looked to the great and bold poem of John Donne Death be not Proud, substituting Death with Snob. 

Though this is a form of parody, my intention is not to mock, trivialize or demean the power and beauty of the original poem. 

The poem by John Donne follows at the end.

Snob do not gloat

Snob do not gloat, though thou think'st thou can stand
Tall and puffed up, and thou pretend'st to glow
For those whom thou hope'st to ov'rshadow,
Still shines, pitiable Snob, nor against me shall lift thine hand.

From skin and bone, for certain, thou art made,
Piss and shit, thou dost do, like the rest of us,
And suffer from illness and wounds that do puss,
and 'tis so that from mem'ry thou soon shall fade.

Thou draw'st to thy side braggarts and name-droppers,
and pull in smart-asses and a highbrow.
Earnestly I ask, how canst we this allow?
For they act ashamedly just like floppers!

We, the modest, should learn to touch the sky
And snobs shall look down on us no more; Snob, thou shalt cry.

The original poem by John Donne:

Death Be Not Proud

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally
and death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

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