Some time ago I found myself with little to do and lots of time left in which to do it. So I wrote this. Eventually I wrote half a dozen parodies of Mr Frost's poem. I'll probably pay for it in the afterlife.

STOPPING BY A CLASSIC ON A WINTER DAY 

What poem is this I’ve trod upon,
infected with my demon spawn?
Immune am I from author’s glare.
I waited til the guy was gone.

And so I stand, alone, foursquare,
about to make some people swear
at words, at me, in effort to
get me the hell away from where

I oughtn’t be. They know I’ll spew
a parody of what some view
a thing of beauty, gilt-embossed,
a poem with which I shouldn’t screw.

They say my soul is surely lost
if I proceed at any cost
with ruining poetry by Frost;
this lovely poem by Robert Frost.