Adaptations from Classic Poetry 2

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Contents of this page:
But soft...
Alas, Poor Jackson
The Hobbit
He hath no stomach...
So, it oft chances...
Is this a contract that I see...
The Night Before Christmas
The Troll's Socks Song

Excerpts from Shakespeare
Excerpt from Hamlet
Excerpt from MacBeth
Excerpt from Henry V
Excerpt from Hamlet
Excerpt from MacBeth
The Night Before Christmas
Sam's Troll Song (from FotR)
Doctor Gamgee
Erech the Undead

Primula's adaptations: 1  2  3 

Once more into the breech, dear friends . . .

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and the Lidless Eye is the Sun!

or while walking through the Ephel Duath . . .

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank.
Here will we sit and let the sounds of knee-breakers creep in our ears.
Soft stillness and the night become the touches of Nazgul flight.
Look how the floor of heaven is thick enlaid with patines of bright fire,
There's not the smallest orb that thou beholds but in its motion
like a Nazgul sings, still choiring, to the keen eyed Uruk-hai.
Such Harmony is in immortal souls.
But whilest this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

But for those who eschew Venice and prefer things As You Like It . . .

All Middle Earth is a stage,
and all the Elves and Orcs, merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one hobbit in his time plays many parts,
The story being Three books.

At first the Nephew,
watching as his uncle takes flight.
And then, the schoolboy flying,
With his kerchief and cousins four,
Creeping like snail unwittingly to Tom!
And then, the Hero,
Challenging the Riders at the Fords,
With a woeful challenge made to the Witchking's forces.
And then the warrior:
Armed with Sting and garbed in Mithril coat.
Jealous in honor and sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation, even in the Balrog's mouth.
And then the justice. With eyes wide open and sight clear,
Finding his friends in danger, he seeks his own way to the end.
The sixth scene shifts to the lean and wounded hobbytla.
His task done and Ring and Gollum destroyed, he weighs nothing
in the hold of Eagles rare.

The last scene of all, that ends this strange and eventful history.
A second journey, with no shores in sight.
Sans joy, sans Ring, sans home, sans everything.


Alas Poor Jackson
With sincerest apologies to William S.

'Alas, poor Jackson. I knew him, Horatio...
A fellow of infinite skill, of most excellent fancy
He hath drawn me to his films a thousand times
And now, left stranded by the studios
He must endure compare
With Raimi and with Scott.
My indignation rises at the thought;
Here stays the genius that did make
I know not how many orcs.
Where be your Lurtz now?
Your Elves, your hobbits of merriment?
That were wont
To set the Oscars on your shelf?
Not one now to win you
The contract for the Hobbit?
Not one single Dwarf
To get Weta working again?
Now get you to the board-room chamber
And tell them, hear the clamour of the fans,
T'is this director they must hire.
Make them bow to that.'


This one is based on my favorite soliloquy from Macbeth:

The Hobbit, the Hobbit, the Hobbit
Creeps New Line’s petty filming pace from day to day
To the last syllable of celluloid time
And all our yesterdays remember PJ
Yet New Line shouts Out Out you Jackson!
They are but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets this Hobbit film
And then is heard no more, it is tale
Made by an idiot, full of stupidity and foolery,
Signifying nothing.
- MithrandirCQ

With apologies to Henry The Fifth....

'He that hath no stomach for this film
Let him depart; his lawsuit shall be made
And crowns for lost time put into his purse;
We would not go to that man's film
Who thinks The Fellowship be made again.
This day is called The Feast of Bagginses.
He that outwits the moguls, and makes this film
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Baggins.
He that shall see 'The Hobbit', and reach old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours
And say; 'Tomorrow is Jackson's Day!'
- Varda

Mith's impersonation of Lord Olivier.

This is a story of a studio that could..... not..... make..... up..... its..... mind.

from Hamlet Act I Scene IV

So, it oft chances among many studios
That for some vicious mole of nature in them,
By the o'er growth of celluloid filming
Oft breaking down their common sense and good reason
Or by some habit that too much by monetary gain
The form of plausible business, that these studios,
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,
Being Oscar winners or the critics' star
Their virtues else -- be they a truthful embrace,
Shall in the general censure take corruption
from that particular fault: the dram of error
Doth all the substance of a doubt
To create this scandal.
- MithrandirCQ

With apologies to, sorry, the Scottish Play...

'Is this a contract that I see before me
No thanks to New Line? I have it not
And yet I want it still.
Art thou not The Hobbit? fatal vision!
A contract of the mind, a bad adaptation
Proceeding from the fan-oppressed studio?
I see thee yet, a book as filmable
As three I made just now!
You marshall'st me the way that I was going
And such direction as I was to use.
My films have won the Oscars on my shelffsses
And they are worth
All the other directors put together!'
- Varda

Based on The Night Before Christmas by Clement Clarke Moore

(A ribald rewrite for the ladies.
Mangled for your reading pleasure
by Erech the undead)

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the hole
Not a creature was stirring, not even a troll;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Sweet Legolas soon would be there;

The young ones were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

A lonely Elf mother, husband killed at Helm's deep
Had just settled down for a lonely night's sleep,

When out on the verge there arose such a clatter,
She sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window she flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to her wondering eyes came her way,
But eight tiny dwarves and a miniature sleigh,

With a tall Elven driver, so lively and fast,
She knew in a moment it must be Legolas.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Gimli, now Bombur, now Dwalin and Balin!

On Fili, on Kili, on Nori and Thorin!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and Sweet Legolas too.

And then, in a twinkling, she heard up the chute
The prancing and dancing of each little boot.

As she drew in her hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Sweet Legolas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a gaffer just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And his clear perfect skin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke sweet and pungent, hung 'round like a wreath;

He had a great face and a little round booty,
That shook, when he laughed, so enticingly fruity.

He was chiseled and perfect, a right jolly young Elf,
And I wept when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I could offer my bed;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all my longings; then stood with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his hose,
He gave but a nod, up my chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."
- Erech the Undead

The Troll's Socks Song

Troll sat alone on the dryers top,
And tried to pair his one old sock;
For many a year he had kept it near,
For socks were hard to keep dry.
Warm dry! Stay dry!
On a dryer in the hills he dwelt alone,
And socks were hard to keep dry.

Up came Tom with his matching socks on.
Said he to Troll: "Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the sock o' my nuncle Tim,
As should be a-coverin' his foot now.
His now! Where now!
This many a year has his sock been gone,
And I thought it was coverin' his foot still."

"My lad," said Troll, 'this sock I found.
But what be socks that lie on the ground?
Thy nuncle was gone as gone could be,
Afore I found his lost sock.
Poor sock! Lone sock!
He can spare a sock for a poor old troll,
For he didn’t miss his lost sock."

Said Tom: "I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the sock off the foot o' my father's kin;
So hand the old sock over!
Rover! Trover!
Though gone he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old sock over!"

"For a couple o' pins," says Troll, and grins,
"I'll strip thy feet, and snatch thy socks.
A pair o' matched socks would be so sweet!
I'll get my socks from thee now.
Hee now! See now!
I'm tired o' havin’ just one old sock;
I've a mind to take your socks now."

But just as he thought those socks were caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom took off his socks
And gave him a smell to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A smell o' dirty socks up his nose, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.

But number than stone is the schnoz and snout
Of a troll that sits on the dryers top.
As well as try to out stink a skunk,
For the nose of a troll don't smell it.
Propel it! Dispel it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his nose could smell it.

Tom's nose is dead, since home he came,
And his sockless feet are forever lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the socks he snatched from their owner.
Donor! Stoner!
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the socks he snatched from their owner!
- Ashlyn