Do Not Go Sulk and Munch on a Daffodil
This poem by Dana Crum appeared in the Nov./Dec. 2005 issue of Writing. The poem is a reverential parody of Dylan Thomas' “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.”
Do not go sulk and munch on a daffodil.
Cat limbs should streak and scratch at lack of food;
Mew, mew against the ending of the meal.
House cats with different bowls know not to steal,
So they—when one draws near, growling and green-hued--
Do not go sulk and munch on a daffodil.
Waking to typing and a bowl bare still,
Dull cats, though master’s sick from words he spewed,
Mew, mew against the ending of the meal.
Wild cats that caught and ate rats on the hill,
Then collapsed, guts chewed by what teeth had chewed,
Do not go sulk and munch on a daffodil.
Fat cats, near sloth, that learn with an aching feel
Large limbs can’t flit like Hermes’ when pursued,
Mew, mew against the ending of the meal.
And you, my kitty, there on the sun-lit sill,
Curse, bless me now with your fanged hiss. Be rude.
Do not go sulk and munch on a daffodil.
Mew, mew against the ending of the meal.
Cat limbs should streak and scratch at lack of food;
Mew, mew against the ending of the meal.
House cats with different bowls know not to steal,
So they—when one draws near, growling and green-hued--
Do not go sulk and munch on a daffodil.
Waking to typing and a bowl bare still,
Dull cats, though master’s sick from words he spewed,
Mew, mew against the ending of the meal.
Wild cats that caught and ate rats on the hill,
Then collapsed, guts chewed by what teeth had chewed,
Do not go sulk and munch on a daffodil.
Fat cats, near sloth, that learn with an aching feel
Large limbs can’t flit like Hermes’ when pursued,
Mew, mew against the ending of the meal.
And you, my kitty, there on the sun-lit sill,
Curse, bless me now with your fanged hiss. Be rude.
Do not go sulk and munch on a daffodil.
Mew, mew against the ending of the meal.
Here is the Dylan Thomas poem that Crum parodies:
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.