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Shuvyira's Lover

Two listeners were inspired by Brian and Siobhan's sad tale to contribute parodies of two Victorian poets to the Fantasy Archers topic of The Archers Ìý Ìý

Poll Doll adapted Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning:

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the lambing sheds for spite,
And caused my caravan to shake:
I listen'd with heart fit to break.
When glided in Shuvyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And bent and made the chill hotplate
Glow red, and the gas fire warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the wet pashmina shawl,
And laid her car keys by, then shed
Her coat, and let her damp hair fall,
And sat upon the pull out bed
And call'd me. When I nothing said
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her flaming hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her russet hair,
Murmuring how she loved me - she
Would never make me leave my wife
Was happy just to sometimes see
Me for some love, and she would never,
Make me change my life forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
And through her falling auburn mane
I saw that one day she'd want more
And I would struggle all in vain:
For she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I look'd up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Shuvyria worshipp'd me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly 30 years younger: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long russet string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laugh'd the green eyes without a stain.
And I untighten'd next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propp'd her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling little Irish head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That drippy Tim with Janet fled,
And I, its love, am gain'd instead!
Shuvyria's love: she guess'd not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirr'd,
And Jenny has not said a word!

Becky Edwards offered this alternative take in the style of Oscar Wilde:

He did not wear his tasselled shoes
For tassels are for tarts
Or babies' jackets, milky-soft,
And now the trouble starts:
The poor mad woman whom he loved,
Had used his tie for darts.
He walked amongst the Grundy Men
(Their suits were sewn from mats)
The Grecian sheen had left his head,
From wearing rustic hats;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at cravats.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a rheumy eye
Upon that little Brummie shed
Which Ambridge calls the sky,
And every ironing board that sped
With gate-like clanging by.
I walked, with other souls in pain
Amidst a forum thing
We wondered if he'd stand the strain
Of normal husbanding
When a voice behind me whispered "Nah,
"The fellow's got to swing."
Dear Christ! we really cannot stand
Our Brian being wet,
For who is left to make us laugh
If he simpers like the vet?
And, though we were as souls in pain
We weren't quite that sick yet...
We wished we knew what kept him there
Milking the cows, and why
He looked upon The Jennifer
With such a loving eye;
The guilt had killed the thing we loved
And so he had to die.