(To the melody of “A Whiter Shade of Pale”)
e skip a light fandango,
turn cartwheels ‘cross the floor.
I’m feeling Nosocomial
but the crowd calls out for more.
The room is humming harder,
with Platitudes displayed.
Though we call out for novelty
still everything’s clichéd.
And so it was that later,
as Max told his raunchy tale,
that my fair, beguiling Copemate
revealed herself as male.
S/he said, “There is no reason
but the truth is plain to see.
Prognosticate with tarot cards.
I’m sure that you’ll agree.”
One of sixteen vestal virgins
who were leaving for the coast
gave Credence to the theory
but my heavy eyelids closed.
Cacology s/he spoke now –
ungracious, coarse, malpro,
so I took her to a therapist
to confirm the status quo.
The therapist – a cheerless
Aorist behaviorist,
expressed himself in Ancient Greek,
and sent us to an amorist.
If music be the food of life
then laughter is its queen
and always Concupiscible
to make our hunger keen.
My mouth by then like cardboard
Concinnity seemed doubtful
Still holding hands we bed-dived
To experiment most lustful.
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Over the first part of April I tried to re-write the lyrics of Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale” using cue words from the Twitter-based Artwiculate wordgame. I also used #NotQuiteProcol as a distinguishing tag. The above is the result.