View Full Version : Shitty Poem By Mozart

Gallopin' Gaucho
14-06-2006, 09:17 PM
Oh mother of mine:
Butter is fine.
Praise and thanks be to Him,
We're alive and full of vim.
Through the world we dash,
Though we're rather short of cash,
But we don't find this provoking
And none of us are choking.
Besides, to the people I'm tied
Who carry their muck inside
And let it out if they are able,
Both before and after the table.
At night of farts there is no lack,
Which let off, forsooth, with a powerful crack.
The king of farts came yesterday
Whose farts smelt sweeter than the may.
His voice, however, was no treat
And he himself was in a heat.
Well, now we've been over a week away
And we've been shitting everyday.
Wendling, no doubt, is in a rage
That I haven't composed a single page;
But when I cross the Rhine once more,
I'll surely dash home through the door
And, least he call me mean and petty,
I'll finish off his four quartetti.
The concerto for Paris I'll keep, it's more fitting.
I'll scribble it there someday when I'm shitting.
Indeed I swear 't would be far more fun
With the Webers around the world to run
Then go with those bores, you know whom I mean.
When I think of their faces, I get the spleen.
But I suppose it must be and off we shall toddle,
Though Weber's arse I prefer to Ramm's noodle.
A slice of Weber's arse is a thing
I'd rather have than Monsieur Wendling.
With our shitting God we cannot hurt,
And least of all if we bite the dirt.
We are honest birds, all of a feather,
We have summa summarum eight eyes together
Not counting those on which we sit.
But now I must rest a bit
From Rhyming. Yet this I must add,
That on Monday I'll have the honor, egad,
To embrace you and kiss your hands so fair.
But first in my pants I'll shit, I swear.

Your faithful child, With distemper wild.

(Poem written by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to his mother in 1778.)


14-06-2006, 11:39 PM
This isn't much of a thread, is it?