The Punkish Mulder-Man
(Filk of Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci")
O what can ail thee, Agent Red,
Alone and vodka swallowing?
Your heels have punctured though the rug,
And no phones ring.
O what can ail thee, Agent Red,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
Your episodal quota's full,
And the season's done.
I see a poodle at thy feet,
With muzzle moist and ounces few,
And in its hair some ribbons pink
Curl prancily too.
I met a punk-man years ago,
Full lunatic – a smoker's child,
His yarns were long, his fuse was short,
And his theories wild.
He trifled much with my poor mind,
While in beige suits I oft was clad;
He ditch-ed me 'most every week,
And made me mad.
I followed him around the world,
And no-one else saw for years long,
For no lives did we have, and sure
I wore a thong.
On New Year's Eve he kissed me sweet,
Sucked glycoproteins from my mouth,
And sure I felt him waken up
In regions south.
He took me to his waterbed,
And there we boinked, and boinked some more,
And then I showed him my new boots
But he did snore.
And then he ditch-ed me again,
And then I found – Ah! woe betide!
A baby made from sperm alone
Of my womb inside.
I saw Skinner and Doggett too,
Dumb agents, assholes were they all;
They cried – "The Punkish Mulder-Man
Hath thee in thrall!"
They said, "Honest to God, you just
Jump at whatever explana-
tion is the wildest and the most
farfetched, right? Eh?"*
The thought of this makes me despair
For oh! My baby might be green
And here I'm being likened to
A punk machine!
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and vodka swallowing,
Though my heels have punctured through the rug,
And no phones ring.
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