The legend lives on, how I wrote the words down
when the inspiration came unto me.
Mistakes, it is said, often come to my head.
So if parody's not good, so sue me!

With a load of good thought, eight hundred parodies wrought
and from "Edmund Fitzgerald," eleven.
What I feel in my bones for Catherine Zeta-Jones
got six songs done and my motor revvin'.

My songs are the pride of the light, not dark side
though some people might be disagreeing.
I put up some puns, they were terrible ones
and from those songs some of you are fleeing.

Concluding some songs 'bout some policy wrongs
and I'm talking 'bout George Dubya Bush's.
His mindset is zany, and so is Dick Cheney
and I'd still like to go kick their tushes!

But I now it confounds, I make profaning sounds
when my memory banks all are failing.
In August, it's true, I began one song new
but I kvetch in November, it's ailing!

The words came late, and posting had to wait
and the tales that I tell now are hashing.
But trying this verse, suppose it could be worse:
It could be my computer that's crashing!

When suppertime came, Arwen gave an IM
saying, "Mister Pacholek, you love me."
At seven PM, she said, "Won't you give in?
Do you really think that you're above me?"

Johnny D wired in a song so full of sin
and a good liberal song done by Carol.
And Malcolm, you know, he writes song that's real gross
but I'm blocked, I'm a writer in peril!

Does anyone know where the thought process goes
when John Barry's been writing for hours?
And Merry and Pip, well, they don't need the tip.
They say, "That kind of talent is ours!"

I might have screwed up and I might have surmised
that my talent won't be what it oughta.
And all that remains is the faces and names
of a lyric database armada!

Fogerty rolls, Mariah, she sings
and the radio lessens my tension.
The sound wave streams and it enters my dreams
so that I can write songs of good fashion!

And farther below, my flattened ego
takes in memories of last night's bender.
And that's when it clicks, all these parody tricks
and so how to write them, I remember!

In a musty old hall in New Brunswick I write
even if I'm not Puffy or Pharrell.
And I know it's real trite, but I might as well write
another version of "Edmund Fitzgerald"!

The legend lives on, how I wrote the words down
and you know I'll be passin', not flunkin'.
And don't be a jerk, rate me better than Lurk
even if it's not good as Rick Duncan!