There’s a clever name for phonetic language parodies which I have forgotten because it’s hot and I have been undergoing ye notorious Spanish wine torture:
Shades of Maria Luisa Puche, the undisputed champion.
My favourite one actually makes more sense than the poésie concrète I wrote for a political campaign some years ago and is of the Welsh cant dirge, Land of my fathers:
My hen laid a haddock on top of a tree
Glad farts and centurions throw dogs in the sea
I could stew a hare here, and brandish Don’s flan.
Don’s ruddy bog’s blocked up with sand.
Dad! Dad! Why don’t you oil Aunty Glad?
When whores appear on beer bottle pies,
Oh butter the hens as they fly.
Dad! Dad! Why don’t you oil Aunty Glad?
When whores appear on beer bottle pies,
Oh butter the hens as they fly.
Joan also does wordless communication:
But his major hit is Rap a la mierda:
Here’s Joan’s secret: do what you’re bad at, nay, celebrate it. Most Britons can’t dance, most Dutch can’t sing the Neapolitan popular repertoire, and most Spaniards will never speak any recognised human language; the sensible ones don’t let their justifiable depression bother them or hold them back.
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