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Category: Funny Burlesque Poems
       Classic humorous and funny poems using comic imitation and exaggeration in an absurd way.

  IMITATION OF WALT WHITMAN  

Who am I?
I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or me
             he;--
Or otherwise!
Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara!
O, chaos and everlasting bosh!
I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a
             fool, an idiot!
Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too,
             perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close.
We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine canons of the future!
We live forever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer,
             and babble--die!
Serve them right.
What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the
             glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman?
Start not! 'Tis no end of a minstrel show who perpends this query;
'Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald,
No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus,
             anagram, or other guess-work.
I answer thus: We both write truths--great, stern, solemn, unquenchable
             truths--couched in more or less ridiculous language.
I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior
             (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country).
I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to
             take a mean advantage of him.
He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack
             my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged
             first!
I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes of
             Oskhosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City.
I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the
             lunches, the dinners, and the suppers;
Of the soup, the fish, the entrees, the joints, the game, the puddings
             and the ice-cream.
I sing all--I eat all--I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem's Anti-bilious
             Pills.
No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature's poet.
I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of
             songs, hundreds of cocktails.
It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a
             million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean.
It is a great and glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the
             Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to
             mention) pierce the clouds!
And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious
             land is Walt Whitman;
This must be so, for he says it himself.
There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting sun.
There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head.
Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of
             Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman,
Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for
             rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in
             letters of gold the name Judy.


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