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Parodies Of Classical Poetry

Tom Paris's Pilgrimage (Canto I, stanzas 1-6)
D'Alaire — 24 Jun 1998

As I do love Byron, and since Childe Harold always reminded me of Paris...

Oh, thou! in Starfleet deemed of heav'nly birth,
CONN! form'd or fabl'd at the pilot's will!
So shamed full oft by other pilots' skills' dearth,
Mine dares not fly thee poorly by his will:
Yes, him I've perus'd by thy console bill;
Yes! sigh'd o'er Voy'ger's tall and jaunty shrine,
Where, save his sickbay duties, all is well;
Except all that trouble brought by Ms. Nine
To add another tale -- But Tommy does just fine.

Whilome in Golden Gate's 'burb there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in bistros most uncouth,
And vex'd with mirth the adm'ral's mores right.
Ah me! in truth he was a pilot right,
Sore given to billiards and gambling sprees;
Few Earthly things found intrest in his sight
Save shuttlecraft and carnal companie,
And pest'ring officers of high and low degree.

Tom Paris was he hight:--but whence his name
And lineage long, I do not have to say;
Suffice it, that gen'rally they were of fame,
And had been glorious in a Starfleet way.
But one sad rascal soils a name for aye,
However mighty in the good old time;
Now, though he was a rake, he had his day,
Of flourid skills, and honeyed "usus loquindi;"
Yet for one evil deed; he consecrated crime.

Tom Paris bask'd him 'fore the court-marshall,
Disporting there like any other guy;
But deem'd before his little day was done
Their blast would chill him into misery.
Yes, long 'fore scarce a third of life pass'd by,
Worse than adversity poor Tom befell;
He knew his commission had come to cease:
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seem'd to him more hostile than I can tell.

For he through Sandrine's poolhall had run,
Nor made attonement when he ducked a bill,
Had sighed to many though he loved no one,
And should he loved, he thought she'd ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! that had been by him kissed
(Certain she'd be nuts if she'd remain chaste);
Yet he'd left her charms for more vulgar bliss,
And spoiled what purse she had to dabo waste.
No, sir, domestic bliss had ne'er been his taste.

And now Tom Paris was sore sick at heart,
And from his former commission would flee;
'Tis said, at times the pilot did look back,
Good scotch congeal'd the tear within his ee:
Bar bills built up from joyless reverie,
Aft from his cash-free land he did so go,
And got a dull job shipping cutlery;
With that poor fate, he truly knew his woe,
And so for change of scene he got hir'd by Chako'.

(Based on Childe Harold's Pilgrimage by Byron)