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This is a really funny Raven spoof. Enjoy.
Once upon a morning dreary,
half awake and eyesight bleary,
While I fetched “The Morning Herald”
lying there outside my door,
As I stood there, stretching, yawning,
Wond’ring what the day was spawning,
Came a figure through the dawning,
fiercely running as to war;
“Who is this,” I asked myself, “who
runs as if he’s off to war?”
“Just a loser, nothing more.”
I could see his Pro-Keds clearly,
and his perspiration nearly
Soaked right through the cotton sweatshirt
and the running shoes he wore;
Shorter breaths he now was making,
I felt sure he must be aching
from the labours of his chore;
“Does your body ache?” I asked, “each
time that you perform this chore?”
Quoth the Jogger, “Ev’ry pore!”
Striding down the street, he ran there,
trotting past each parked sedan there,
Till the air was filled with gasps that
I had not heard heretofore;
Soon I knew as he came closer,
He was not a loony, no sir,
Or some early-rising grocer
racing toward some distant store;
“You’re a jogger,” I exclaimed, “and
not some grocer with a store!”
Quoth the Jogger, “To the core!”
Round the block he was now veering,
then quite soon was reappearing,
Battered, scarred and bleeding in a
state most people would deplore;
Ev’ry garment he was wearing
Now was either ripped or tearing;
Furthermore, his legs were bearing
signs of toothmarks by the score;
“What on earth,” I asked, “has caused these
signs of toothmarks by the score?”
Quoth the Jogger, “Dogs galore!”
Suddenly it started raining,
and I thought he’d been complaining
of conditions unforeseen that
Mother Nature had in store;
Drenched with rain, he soon was dripping,
And sometimes he lost his gripping
Causing him to wind up slipping
on the pavement bruised and sore;
“Give it up,” I pleaded as he
lay there gasping, bruised and sore;
Quoth the Jogger, “Let it pour!”
On and on, he did continue,
straining ev’ry bone and sinew,
Round the block and back again
until each passing was a bore;
“Hey,” I asked him, “aren’t you done now?”
“Surely this can’t be much fun now;
“Fifteen miles or more you’ve run now
since I’ve been here, keeping score:
“Isn’t that enough?” I uttered,
as I stood there, keeping score;
Quoth the Jogger, “Just one more!”
The it was that I did see there
just how old he seemed to be there:
Ancient was his weathered face with
Wrinkles I could not ignore;
Years of running so insanely
Made him look much older, plainly,
Than his age, which I felt mainly
Must be fifty-five or more;
“What’s your age?” I asked, expecting
He’d say fifty-five or more,
Quoth the Jogger, “Twenty four!”
Once upon a morning dreary,
half awake and eyesight bleary,
While I fetched “The Morning Herald”
lying there outside my door,
As I stood there, stretching, yawning,
Wond’ring what the day was spawning,
Came a figure through the dawning,
fiercely running as to war;
“Who is this,” I asked myself, “who
runs as if he’s off to war?”
“Just a loser, nothing more.”
I could see his Pro-Keds clearly,
and his perspiration nearly
Soaked right through the cotton sweatshirt
and the running shoes he wore;
Shorter breaths he now was making,
I felt sure he must be aching
from the labours of his chore;
“Does your body ache?” I asked, “each
time that you perform this chore?”
Quoth the Jogger, “Ev’ry pore!”
Striding down the street, he ran there,
trotting past each parked sedan there,
Till the air was filled with gasps that
I had not heard heretofore;
Soon I knew as he came closer,
He was not a loony, no sir,
Or some early-rising grocer
racing toward some distant store;
“You’re a jogger,” I exclaimed, “and
not some grocer with a store!”
Quoth the Jogger, “To the core!”
Round the block he was now veering,
then quite soon was reappearing,
Battered, scarred and bleeding in a
state most people would deplore;
Ev’ry garment he was wearing
Now was either ripped or tearing;
Furthermore, his legs were bearing
signs of toothmarks by the score;
“What on earth,” I asked, “has caused these
signs of toothmarks by the score?”
Quoth the Jogger, “Dogs galore!”
Suddenly it started raining,
and I thought he’d been complaining
of conditions unforeseen that
Mother Nature had in store;
Drenched with rain, he soon was dripping,
And sometimes he lost his gripping
Causing him to wind up slipping
on the pavement bruised and sore;
“Give it up,” I pleaded as he
lay there gasping, bruised and sore;
Quoth the Jogger, “Let it pour!”
On and on, he did continue,
straining ev’ry bone and sinew,
Round the block and back again
until each passing was a bore;
“Hey,” I asked him, “aren’t you done now?”
“Surely this can’t be much fun now;
“Fifteen miles or more you’ve run now
since I’ve been here, keeping score:
“Isn’t that enough?” I uttered,
as I stood there, keeping score;
Quoth the Jogger, “Just one more!”
The it was that I did see there
just how old he seemed to be there:
Ancient was his weathered face with
Wrinkles I could not ignore;
Years of running so insanely
Made him look much older, plainly,
Than his age, which I felt mainly
Must be fifty-five or more;
“What’s your age?” I asked, expecting
He’d say fifty-five or more,
Quoth the Jogger, “Twenty four!”
Why is that funny?
This is a really funny Raven spoof. Enjoy.
Once upon a morning dreary,
half awake and eyesight bleary,
While I fetched “The Morning Herald”
lying there outside my door,
As I stood there, stretching, yawning,
Wond’ring what the day was spawning,
Came a figure through the dawning,
fiercely running as to war;
“Who is this,” I asked myself, “who
runs as if he’s off to war?”
“Just a loser, nothing more.”
I could see his Pro-Keds clearly,
and his perspiration nearly
Soaked right through the cotton sweatshirt
and the running shoes he wore;
Shorter breaths he now was making,
I felt sure he must be aching
from the labours of his chore;
“Does your body ache?” I asked, “each
time that you perform this chore?”
Quoth the Jogger, “Ev’ry pore!”
Striding down the street, he ran there,
trotting past each parked sedan there,
Till the air was filled with gasps that
I had not heard heretofore;
Soon I knew as he came closer,
He was not a loony, no sir,
Or some early-rising grocer
racing toward some distant store;
“You’re a jogger,” I exclaimed, “and
not some grocer with a store!”
Quoth the Jogger, “To the core!”
Round the block he was now veering,
then quite soon was reappearing,
Battered, scarred and bleeding in a
state most people would deplore;
Ev’ry garment he was wearing
Now was either ripped or tearing;
Furthermore, his legs were bearing
signs of toothmarks by the score;
“What on earth,” I asked, “has caused these
signs of toothmarks by the score?”
Quoth the Jogger, “Dogs galore!”
Suddenly it started raining,
and I thought he’d been complaining
of conditions unforeseen that
Mother Nature had in store;
Drenched with rain, he soon was dripping,
And sometimes he lost his gripping
Causing him to wind up slipping
on the pavement bruised and sore;
“Give it up,” I pleaded as he
lay there gasping, bruised and sore;
Quoth the Jogger, “Let it pour!”
On and on, he did continue,
straining ev’ry bone and sinew,
Round the block and back again
until each passing was a bore;
“Hey,” I asked him, “aren’t you done now?”
“Surely this can’t be much fun now;
“Fifteen miles or more you’ve run now
since I’ve been here, keeping score:
“Isn’t that enough?” I uttered,
as I stood there, keeping score;
Quoth the Jogger, “Just one more!”
The it was that I did see there
just how old he seemed to be there:
Ancient was his weathered face with
Wrinkles I could not ignore;
Years of running so insanely
Made him look much older, plainly,
Than his age, which I felt mainly
Must be fifty-five or more;
“What’s your age?” I asked, expecting
He’d say fifty-five or more,
Quoth the Jogger, “Twenty four!”
Once upon a morning dreary,
half awake and eyesight bleary,
While I fetched “The Morning Herald”
lying there outside my door,
As I stood there, stretching, yawning,
Wond’ring what the day was spawning,
Came a figure through the dawning,
fiercely running as to war;
“Who is this,” I asked myself, “who
runs as if he’s off to war?”
“Just a loser, nothing more.”
I could see his Pro-Keds clearly,
and his perspiration nearly
Soaked right through the cotton sweatshirt
and the running shoes he wore;
Shorter breaths he now was making,
I felt sure he must be aching
from the labours of his chore;
“Does your body ache?” I asked, “each
time that you perform this chore?”
Quoth the Jogger, “Ev’ry pore!”
Striding down the street, he ran there,
trotting past each parked sedan there,
Till the air was filled with gasps that
I had not heard heretofore;
Soon I knew as he came closer,
He was not a loony, no sir,
Or some early-rising grocer
racing toward some distant store;
“You’re a jogger,” I exclaimed, “and
not some grocer with a store!”
Quoth the Jogger, “To the core!”
Round the block he was now veering,
then quite soon was reappearing,
Battered, scarred and bleeding in a
state most people would deplore;
Ev’ry garment he was wearing
Now was either ripped or tearing;
Furthermore, his legs were bearing
signs of toothmarks by the score;
“What on earth,” I asked, “has caused these
signs of toothmarks by the score?”
Quoth the Jogger, “Dogs galore!”
Suddenly it started raining,
and I thought he’d been complaining
of conditions unforeseen that
Mother Nature had in store;
Drenched with rain, he soon was dripping,
And sometimes he lost his gripping
Causing him to wind up slipping
on the pavement bruised and sore;
“Give it up,” I pleaded as he
lay there gasping, bruised and sore;
Quoth the Jogger, “Let it pour!”
On and on, he did continue,
straining ev’ry bone and sinew,
Round the block and back again
until each passing was a bore;
“Hey,” I asked him, “aren’t you done now?”
“Surely this can’t be much fun now;
“Fifteen miles or more you’ve run now
since I’ve been here, keeping score:
“Isn’t that enough?” I uttered,
as I stood there, keeping score;
Quoth the Jogger, “Just one more!”
The it was that I did see there
just how old he seemed to be there:
Ancient was his weathered face with
Wrinkles I could not ignore;
Years of running so insanely
Made him look much older, plainly,
Than his age, which I felt mainly
Must be fifty-five or more;
“What’s your age?” I asked, expecting
He’d say fifty-five or more,
Quoth the Jogger, “Twenty four!”