Nice one, gex gex. I think we can improve it slightly if we make it read:
How about Coleridge?
A king built a house.
It was freaky.
I’d like to hear someone do the one with the Albatross.
I would translate this instead as “Everyone knows that a dude who’s got money will get the chicks…whether he wants them or not.”
Macbeth Act 1, Scene 1.
Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches.
First Witch: When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
Second Witch: When the hurlyburly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.
Third Witch: That will be ere the set of sun.
First Witch: Where the place?
Second Witch: Upon the Heath.
Third Witch: There to meet with Macbeth.
First Witch: I come, Graymalkin!
All: Paddock calls anon.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
Exeunt.
.
.
.
.
.
Macbeth Act 1, Scene 1.
Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches.
First Witch: When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
Second Witch: Why do we always have to have these pissups when the weather’s so crap?
Third Witch: I’m up for it! As long as it’s not too dark.
First Witch: OK then. Where do you fancy going?
Second Witch: The Heath. It’s just been refurbished with faux 11th century decor. Ther Dunsinane Gazette gave it Rave Reviews.
Third Witch: Will Mac be there?
First Witch: Sounds good. I’m in.
All: Hang on. The phone’s ringing. It’s my toad. Six of one and half a dozen of the other really. I’ll tell him to bugger off.
Exeunt.
A sailor in a graveyard boring everyone to death.
The Lady of Shallot, by Alfred Lord Tennyson
…
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower’d Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott…"
The Lady of Shallot, by Kn*ckers:
The Lady of Shallot was singing and weaving a blanket. She knew she wasn’t supposed to look at Camelot, so she didn’t. She was okay with that.
The Silmarillion
There was Eru, the One, who in Arda is called Illuvatar; and he made first the Aninur, the Holy Ones, that were the offspring of his thought, and they were with him before aught else was made. And he spoke to them, propounding to them themes of music; and they sang before him, and he was glad. But for a long while they sang only each alone, or but few together, while the rest hearkened; for each comprehended only that part of the mind of Illuvatar from which he came, and in the understanding of their brethren they grew but slowly. Yet ever as they listened they came to deeper understanding, and increased in unison and harmony.
There was this supreme being who…
I’m sorry guys, I just can’t do it. I can’t dumb down Tolkiens worlds. Someone else can continue if they like.
panamajack,
I actually like yours better!
Here’s The Canturbury Tales
Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(so priketh hem nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of engelond to caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.
In the spring, people get restless. A lot of them go to Canterbury.
catcher in the rye:
“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”
my version:
“Whatever.”
One from a problem in my chemistry textbook:
Explain the meaning of the following from * The Rime of the Ancient Mariner *:
Water, water, everywhere,
And not a drop to drink,
Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink
In other words, the osmotic gradient of the saltwater sucked what fresh water was left in the boards of the ship, just as it would you if you tried to drink seawater.
Most of Shakespeare’s plays and a few of his sonnets boiled down to a line apiece, with a few expletives added for spice.
Also, although my French Lit teacher seems to think she’s stretching analysis of the opening of Stendhal’s Le Rouge et le noir over a week of classes, I can spare y’all the trouble of reading it by simplifying it thusly:
Chapter One: So there’s this pretty town, right, with a big factory in it.
Chapter Two: And the mayor’s a dick.
The Outsider/ Le Estranger by Albert Camus:
meh!
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more.”
I was up late reading porn when someone knocked at my door
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.
I was up late reading porn, cause my baby left me in heartbreak hotel
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."
The curtains are blowing, I’m getting all paranoid. It just must be bad weed. Plus, what’s up with the dude who’s banging on my door?
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
F*cking trick-or-treaters
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
“Lenore!” Merely this, and nothing more.
< a la Marlon Brando in A Streetcar named Desire > Leee-norrrrreee!
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more.”
Great, now those f*cking trick-or-treaters are at the gawddamned window
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Hey! It ain’t a trick-or-treater! It’s a gawddamned bird, and it’s standing on my statue!
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Me: “Hey bird! Whaaasssup?”
Bird: “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
Th’ hell does “Nevermore” have to do with “Whaaasssup?”. Oh. It’s his name.
But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Th’ damned bird’s not sayin’ nothin’ else.
Me: “But you’ll leave me like everyone else does.”
Bird: “Nevermore”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,—
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never—nevermore.”
Didn’t the dumbass who taught th’ bird to talk teach 'im more than one damned word?
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
I pulled up a chair and stared at th’ bird. 's amazing what seems like a good idea when you’re toked.
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
When you gaze at the bird, the bird also gazes at you. Nietzsche said that, didn’t he? Plus, the sofa’s pretty.
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”
sniff. Ssnnnnnnnnniffffffff? Ok, did someone cut one?
Me: You cut one, didn’t you?
Bird: Nevermore!
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!–prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted–
On this home by horror haunted–tell me truly, I implore:
Is there–is there balm in Gilead?–tell me–tell me I implore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Me: Damned bird, you cut one! Anyway, will things ever be groovy again?
Bird: Nevermore
“Prophet!” said I, "thing of evil–prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us–by that God we both adore–
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Me: That answer sucked. Fine. If I snuff myself, will I be with Lenore?
Bird: Nevermore
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting–
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Me: Dude, you’re bumming me out. Get lost.
Bird: Nevermore
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
And so th’ damned bird is still sitting on top of my statue, staring at me and when’ll I stop being bummed out? Nevermore.
Edgar Allan Fenris
Humble Servant:
Agreed… yours is better. I was trying to preserve Austen’s irony, but I guess I needed another sentence for that. Although Lamia’s version does get nicely to the point 
Original
“And as he spoke his spirit left him and flitted away down to Hades, weeping for the youth and manhood it must leave”
a la me
He kicked the bucket
I’m loving this thread, but just to let y’all know it’s been done before, here’s George Eliot’s take on Hamlet:
“Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, was speculative and irresolute, and we have a great tragedy in consequence. But if his father had lived to a good old age and his uncle had died an early death, we can conceive Hamlet’s having married Ophelia and got through life with a reputation of sanity, notwithstanding many soliloquies and some moody sarcasms towards the fair daughter of Polonius, to say nothing of the frankest incivility to his father-in-law.”
from The Mill on the Floss, book 6, chapter 6. Yay, Mary Ann, say I
I’m not crazy! The dude’s eye was freakin’ me out so I had to whack 'im!
God put in a 40 hour week, did a shift of OT, and relaxed all day Sunday. All in all, it was a pretty good week.
Yeah, I like Lamia’s too.
“It was the best of the times, it was the worst of times…(etc.)…
And there was a mad bloodthirsty clown, who beckoned innocent children into the streets and swallowed them whole.”
“It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done…it is a far, far better BUTT-KICKING I give than I have ever buttkicked before!!!”
Yossarian thought “My CO wants to kill me, everyone else in the book is dead, and a whacked-out prostitute is trying to kill me. Fuck this, I’m moving to Sweden.” and he ran like Hell.