Anyway. I figured it was time to mutilate another great piece of
literature. In a former life, this was "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by
Mr Sensitive Old-Age Guy, John Keats. It can be found here:
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Forum/9194/keats/poetry/labelle.html
I recommend it. And he wrote another poem entitled "To Autumn", so
there we are.


THE PUNKISH MULDER-MAN

O what can ail thee, Agent Red,
Alone and vodka swallowing?
Your heels have punctured though the rug, 
And no phones ring.

O what can ail thee, Agent Red,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
Your episodal quota's full,
And the season's done.

I see a poodle at thy feet,
With muzzle moist and ounces few,
And in its hair some ribbons pink 
Curl prancily too.

I met a punk-man years ago,
Full lunatic - a smoker's child,
His yarns were long, his fuse was short,
And his theories wild.

He trifled good with my poor mind,
While in beige suits I oft was clad;
He ditch-ed me 'most every week,
And made me mad.

I followed him around the world,
And no-one else saw for years long,
For no lives did we have, and sure
I wore a thong.

On New Year's Eve he kissed me sweet,
Sucked glycoproteins from my mouth,
And sure I felt him waken up
In regions south.

He took me to his waterbed,
And there we boinked, and boinked some more,
And then I showed him my new boots
But he did snore.

And then he ditch-ed me again,
And then I found - Ah! woe betide!
A baby made from sperm alone
Of my womb inside.

I saw Skinner and Doggett too, 
Dumb agents, a*****es were they all;
They cried - "The Punkish Mulder-Man 
Hath thee in thrall!"

They said, "Honest to God, you just
Jump at whatever explana-
tion is the wildest and the most
farfetched, right? Eh?"*

The thought of this makes me despair
For oh! My baby might be green
And here I'm being likened to
A punk machine!

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and vodka swallowing,
Though my heels have punctured through the rug,
And no phones ring.


*Uh, sorry. 

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