h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

"A miracle!" they all enthuse
With yelps of satisfaction;
The ode recovers from its snooze,
The bard is back in action.

But who can read the bloody thing?
I wrote a good few portions,
Though never quite au fait with its
Mutations and contortions

You'll never consummate it now,
It's past its tell-by marking;
No ending suits it anyhow,
Too gross a beast for parking.

Critical mass has won the race--
We open weary eyes on
The helpless drift to outer space
With no event horizon.

Thee was another thread like this. I joined and it stopped stone dead. So with a similar vein let's see how soon I can sto this one:

To enter on this lengthy yarn,
Meand’ring through the mire,
Of nonsencs and conundrums,
Is something I’d aspire.

I write in Greek and Hebrew,
I talk in rhyming slang,
And translate Dutch to English
With a slightly celtic twang.

I have the right credentials,
For writing utter twaddle,
All sense has long since left my brain,
Now just an empty noddle.

I use cephalopodic ink,
It smells a bit, when dried,
But sticks like shit to blankets,
The very best I’ve tried.

So, if the bards of longest rhymes,
Will let this humble scribe,
Append a few odd couplets,
I’ll to their health imbibe.

here is the first bit of the ballad in guide form

http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/brunel/A1070786

Your Pedantry is welcome
And causes no alarm;
This ode has grown to zombie zone--
You can't do any harm.

Dear gods, the balladeer replied,
Dear gods, for they are many,
I really hoped this ode had died,
And could obscurely now reside
Beyond our reach, but you replied!
Twill cost a pretty penny.

Did you but know what you unleash
What slumbering beast you prod,
What dreadful monster you release
To whom you give the nod,

Did you but know what endless reams
Of awful rhymes remain,
You'd never sail upon those seas
So heedless of your pain.
It's easier far to start than cease,
To stop and start again.

Oh what a load of total balls
Comes tumbling from my pen,
Comes rattling from my jaded brain
And into Grimley Fen.

And now balladic muscles flex
Balladaddiction bites,
I twitch my burbling bardic pecs
And welcome sleepless nights,
And wait with dread and aching head
What may be said and worse still, read,
When sense has fled (I long for bed)
In fantisastrous flights.

And that's to say, I'll keep it brief,
It only takes a pair
Of sparring balladeers to joust...
And Grimley takes to air.

In Grimley Moer the kirkly spire
Is still devoid of gold,
And how this lack was rectified
Is still as yet untold.

But rectified it surely was
And by our Dandy hero,
Who fiddled time so cunningly
He clean outfiddled Nero.

(Okay, it's rather sad to rhyme
By dragging in a Roman,
There's worse to come, I'm sure, in time,
Consider this an omen!)

(Two clapping hands, one understands
Denote approving praise,
And that's enough to make this stuff
Go on for days and days.

"Two clapping hands?" you ask, "and where
Were they, for I see none!"
Just scroll above, go back a bit
To posting five eight one.
It's not my fault if I assault
Your wits, it's just for fun,
We're all determined in our fate
And this has just begun...)

The central theme, bizarre but true,
Concerned the Grimley kirk,
Whose spire was to be gilded new
Besides some other work
To be performed by Dandy Lad
And other wights who lurk
Betwixt between these tangled threads
In Grimley's Moerish murk.

The gold lay far, so far afield
Beneath a Flergal Flea
(Though how that pulix got its name's
A mystery to me.)

Tis said by some the gold may come
Out of the Flergal rump,
In nuggets from the Flergal bum
Like pellets from a pump.

Just what it was the Flergal ate
Has been a source of some debate.
As I've no wish to altercate
At this or any other date,
I'd say,"A substance oleate
Like golden butter, is its fate,
Which, passing through the oral gate
Descends to processes I'd hate
To witness or officiate.....
(Enough, is there a word like "jate"?
And did I say I'd alter Kate?
I can't stop now, it's far too late,
As I am forced to consummate
This scheme of rhymes by drives innate,
By forces some term inchoate.
What does that mean? I scratch my pate
And hope my brain is adequate
Or capable at any rate
Of finding ways to compensate
You for your pain. Don't hesitate
To skip the rest. Evaluate
Your time well spent, don't aggravate
Your troubled wits, in fact, don't wait
A moment more. Though I fixate
Upon a flea an wot 'e yate
There's not a word that ends in "zate"!

Where were we? Ah, the Flergal Flea
Is said the gold to hide
That Dandy seeks through days and weeks
Through verses far and wide
The Antwerp Eagle up his nose
And sometimes by his side.

What drives him ever on and on?
He hopes to win the hand
Of Grimley's greenskinned maiden fair,
So now, you understand.
To win her with her lilac hair
Was all he ever planned
A great fat Grimley wedding
With a marquee and a band,
An endless flow of Grimley Pale
And dancing on the sand.

The Gangly Bard, he took it hard
His Lektro Lyre lies rusting
Its strings all bust, it's caked with dust
Its saddle needs adjusting

He swaps it for a tenor yook
With pickups and a socket
He hopes therewith to scotch the myth
That's spread by those that mock it

The tenor yook, they say, is puke
And puny, pusillanimous;
Poorly designed and undermined
By shortcomings you canna miss

But Gangly takes the challenge on
And proves them all unbalanced
He lays down tracks that make the max
Imum use of his talents

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgqmlFbroqE

He adds a yoobass to his band
To give his yook some bottom
With bum bum bum, who needs a drum?
Mudflats, my baby's got 'em

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2Iam9Pq3Gs

Six days away, the mice can play
Without the Grimley Cat,
They're making hay, to his dismay,
And plugging yukes at that.

This yukery is vile, perverse
And something must be done.
There's just one way to plug a yuke
And that is...with a gun!

This Grimley Bard is somewhat scarred
And can't type much tonight.
He hit his finger rather hard
So now it hurts like shight,
And anyway it's late, he's tired,
He's turning out the light.

We're sorry for the bloodied bard
And hope he'll soon be better;
His finger throbs on striking knobs--
He must avoid one letter

But still he might put up a fight
And write, despite the bleeders,
With storied Windows richly dight
To entertain his readers

Meanwhile the Gangly Bard recruits
A band, arcane and mystic;
To gather fans he boldly plans
A Congress, Yookeristic

Don\t think that writing this stuff gives me
Any satisfaction--
It's just a goad that might explode
Chaiwallah into action

"The time has come", the Walrus said,
"For us to have a chat,
'bout mushy peas, and worker bees
and my dislike of all things 'cat'"

"It's not too hard" remarked the Bard,
"To keep to Ballad form,
In terms of syllables and rhyme
This verse displays the norm."

Oh dear, it's clear the Bard is out,
And out to make a point.
As Shakespeare's witches used to say,
"Aroint thee, witch, aroint!"
Though what they really meant was, "Hey
Don't hog the bleeding joint!"

The Congress sets a date to meet
And advertises duly:
Next August, come to Dublin for
The Yook-a-Laily Hooley

http://ukeireland.com/