I'm posting this on my blog, rather than in Madam Jillinghoff's Bedroom Rhymes, because it's not erotic. There's a blogger with too much time on his hands who likes to rewrite pop lyrics as Elizabethan sonnets. I thought the idea was clever enough to deserve one passing attempt of my own:
I dreamt I was a lad in Arctic climes,
Where bitter cold the tundra wind doth blow,
And there my weeping mother cried betimes:
"Oh be thou not a naughty Esquimaux.
"Keepest thou thy money in thy purse,
And ever be a good and trusty fellow.
Beware the spots that huskies may immerse,
And never eat the snow if it be yellow."
As prudence be the stuff of common weal,
My mother's wise enjoinings did I heed,
Until a trapper whapped my baby seal
And spurred me to a base and violent deed:
Life's Authoress, do not your son chastise
For rubbing golden crystals in his eyes.
-- Frank Zappa "Don't Eat the Yellow Snow"