This is the 13th in a series of pop-music parodies for Shakespeare fans.

Enjoy!

The Death of Kings
sung to the tune of “Single Ladies”

(With apologies to Beyoncé, and people who don’t like song parodies…)

All the death of kings. All the death of kings.
All the death of kings. All the death of kings.
All the death of kings. All the death of kings.
All the death of kings. Now put your guard up!

Just come ashore (shore), losing the war (war),
Let’s talk of grave grim things.
Gather around (round), sit on the ground (ground),
To tell stories of the death of kings.
Some poisoned by wives (wives), or war claimed their lives (lives),
Some died of hypertension.
But when you supplant (plant), that simply can’t (can’t)
Be good for your country.

‘Cause if you liked it then you shoulda left the king on it.
If you liked it then you shoulda left the king on it.
Don’t be shocked when my heirs make a thing of it.
If you liked it then you shoulda left the king on it.

Whuh uh uh. Uh uh uh, uh uh uh, uh uh uh.
Whuh uh uh. Uh uh uh, uh uh uh, uh uh uh.

If you liked it then you shoulda left the king on it.
If you liked it then you shoulda left the king on it.
Don’t be shocked when my heirs make a thing of it.
If you liked it then you shoulda left the king on it.

I had soldiers to fight (fight), a clear divine right (right);
The Lord up in Heaven chose me.
Bolingbroke (brook), he came and took (took);
In he comes and out goes me.
Since your ascension, did I mention,
There’s significant dissention.
So you want your turn (turn), well now you’re gonna learn,
What follows when you come depose me.

‘Cause if you liked it then you shoulda left the king on it.
If you liked it then you shoulda left the king on it.
Don’t be shocked when my heirs make a thing of it.
If you liked it then you shoulda left the king on it.

Whuh uh uh. Uh uh uh, uh uh uh, uh uh uh.
Whuh uh uh. Uh uh uh, uh uh uh, uh uh uh.

Don’t think that things will be as they were before:
A bloody civil war!
The crown is what I have earned, what I deserve!
It’s a major travesty that’s a recipe for a destiny to a misery for your children’s kids and beyond…

As soldiers take up arms,
Inflicting massive harms,
More than you have ever known,
And like those kings, I’ll be gone.

All the death of kings. All the death of kings.
All the death of kings. All the death of kings.
All the death of kings. All the death of kings.
All the death of kings. Now put your guard up!

Whuh uh uh!

I am Yogi; I’m Smokey; I’m Winnie the Pooh;
I am offering witness; a hug that is true;
Carry weapons or gifts; I’m to just muddle through;
I’m producing a fruit; and an infant babe, too!

Who am I?

UPDATE: Riddle solved by Asher. See comments for answer.

This is the twelfth in a series of pop-music parodies for Shakespeare fans.

Enjoy!

You Should Never Ever Trust a Bastard, Edgar
sung to the tune of “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together”

(With apologies to Taylor Swift, and bastards…)

I remember when we met up this last time.
You were my brother from another mother, cause like,
We hadn’t seen each other for nine years,
Because the bastard had to be sent away. (What?)

Then I come around again and say “Eddie,
Father’s angry and you need to run away. Trust me.”
Remember how I drew on you that day?
I said “You must leave,” I fought you, you took off, I screwed you.

Oooh, you’ve never really known my mind,
But oooh, this time I’m telling you, I’m telling you…

You should never ever ever trust a bastard, Edgar.
You should never ever ever trust a bastard, Edgar.
Our father’s lands were your lands, now those lands belong to me.
‘Cause you should never ever ever ever trust a bastard, Edgar.

Like, ever!

I always thought it seemed quite out of place
For one brother to be proper and one base,
But you always seemed to think it very fine
That your birthright was so much more rightful than mine.

Oooh, you’ve never really known my mind,
But oooh, this time I’m telling you, I’m telling you…

You should never ever ever trust a bastard, Edgar.
You should never ever ever trust a bastard, Edgar.
Our father’s lands were your lands, now those lands belong to me.
‘Cause you should never ever ever ever trust a bastard, Edgar.

You never knew it was I who wrote that letter, letter
Like I heard the king say “Never, never, never, never, never.”

Ugh, so he shows up and he’s like “draw thy sword.”
And I’m like… “this sword of mine will let your treasons rest forever.”
You know? You should never trust a bastard, Edgar.

Like, ever!

No!
You should never ever ever trust a bastard, Edgar.
You should never ever ever trust a bastard, Edgar.
Our father’s lands were your lands, now those lands belong to me.
‘Cause you should never ever ever ever trust a bastard, Edgar.

I’m an astronaut known for achievements in space;
On my bike, I won many a Tour de France race;
My inventions secured FM radio’s place;
And my trumpet and voice are as known as my face.

Who am I?

UPDATE: Riddle solved by Asher. See comments for answer.

I’m the front of a book; I’m a spy’s secret role;
I’m a band who plays oldies; to spackle a hole;
I’m the fee to get in; put a lid on a bowl;
I am guarding your man; or protecting your goal.

Who am I?

UPDATE: Riddle solved by Another Shakespeare Teacher. See comments for answer.

From Hamlet:

I cannot live to hear the news from England;
But I do prophesy the election lights
On Fortinbras.

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

Math prognosticator Nate Silver predicted the whole state finishing roll, one-none.

Fun hobby!

This is the eleventh in a series of pop-music parodies for Shakespeare fans.

Enjoy!

One More Knight
sung to the tune of “One More Night”

(With apologies to Maroon 5, and St. Cripin…)

You and I look hard at each other while preparing for war.
You and I assess that our troop levels are less than before.
You and I agree it’s an issue that we should not ignore.
You and I diverge on the question of our wishing for more.

Yeah, today’s the feast of Crispin, Crispianus,
This day is holy-y,
And those who fight with us here, fight with us here,
Shall be not lowly-y,
And yearly when this day comes, when this day comes,
You’ll tell the story-y,
And so the fewer the men, fewer the men,
The greater share of glory-y.

We few are enough, if we’re marked to die,
And so now I pray, wish not one more knight.
Rather take their leave, those who would not fight,
But I pray thee, coz, wish not one more knight.

Gentlemen of England,
Who are now home resting quiet in bed,
Will curse themselves,
They were not here fighting with us instead,
Hold their manhoods cheap,
And find there’s little more that they have to say,
To the heroes that fought
Alongside the King on St. Crispin’s Day.

Yeah, today’s the feast of Crispin, Crispianus,
This day is holy-y,
And those who fight with us here, fight with us here,
Shall be not lowly-y,
And yearly when this day comes, when this day comes,
You’ll tell the story-y,
And so the fewer the men, fewer the men,
The greater share of glory-y.

We few are enough, if we’re marked to die,
And so now I pray, wish not one more knight.
Rather take their leave, those who would not fight,
But I pray thee, coz, wish not one more knight.

I’m to pull out your gun; put a sketch on the page;
I’m a game-ending tie; I bring crowds to the stage;
Take a card from the deck; pick a ball from the cage;
Moving curtains or blinds; and collecting a wage.

Who am I?

UPDATE: Riddle solved by Asher. See comments for answer.

From King Lear:

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O! I have ta’en
Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

Hurricane Sandy was a tragedy of the steepest stuff: power loss, floods, treks, homes lost, and death.

How should we justify exactly who we are?

The next test, this election ahead, is to choose among two discussed philosophies.

Romney sulks “Every man for himself.” Shut up!

Obama defends “We’re all in this together,” as he had heeded.

Help us keep up the push to stay there for one another.

Vote.

This is the tenth of a series of pop-music parodies for Shakespeare fans.

Bon Appetit!

Gristle
sung to the tune of “Whistle”

(With apologies to Flo Rida and the faint of heart…)

Did you get some gristle, maybe, gristle maybe?
Let me know.
I used a different kind of meat that seemed more apropos.
You just grind the bones to powder and you cook it slow.
Did you get some gristle maybe, gristle maybe?
Let me know.

I heard you like sweet pies,
But I bet you’d like meat pies;
And so now take a look,
I’m dressed like a cook,
To invite you to eat pies.

You are, my gracious lord, welcome.
And, dread queen, you too are welcome.
Ye war-like Goths sure are welcome.
Lucius and all, you are welcome.

Hope you won’t complain;
Have some more champagne;
Have one more helping.
Every bite you savor
Carries a distinctively curious flavor,
But the truth is really much graver…

Did you get some gristle, maybe, gristle maybe?
Let me know.
I used a different kind of meat that seemed more apropos.
You just grind the bones to powder and you cook it slow.
Did you get some gristle maybe, gristle maybe?
Let me know.

Gristle, maybe? Gristle, maybe?
Gristle, maybe? Gristle, maybe?

You just grind the bones whole,
Then mix with blood in a bowl.
Make sure the paste is rolled.
Use a spatula to fold.
With just one hand to hold,
The dish is best served cold.

The vilest Vandal can’t hold a candle
To these two villains, so much more than I could handle.
So I baked them into pies from corona to sandal,
‘Cause you never want to mess with Titus Andro.
I fed them to their momma, and that’s the scandal.

So amusing, so if you get some gristle, it’s confusing,
When you see now how the pies are simply oozing
With the special kind of meat that I’ve been using.

Did you get some gristle, maybe, gristle maybe?
Let me know.
I used a different kind of meat that seemed more apropos.
You just grind the bones to powder and you cook it slow.
Did you get some gristle maybe, gristle maybe?
Let me know.

Gristle, maybe? Gristle, maybe?
Gristle, maybe? Gristle, maybe?

I killed your sons; you consumed them,
In the meat pies that entombed them.
You ate your kin; that’s so trippy.
Let’s call it a family, family, family recipie.
So, dread queen, now you know – oh oh oh.
It’s like that Sweeney Todd show – oh oh.

Did you get some gristle, maybe, gristle maybe?
Let me know.
I used a different kind of meat that seemed more apropos.
You just grind the bones to powder and you cook it slow.
Did you get some gristle maybe, gristle maybe?
Let me know.