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Saturday, August 11, 2007
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Slate's Bad Poetry Contest UD's recent post on William McGonagall prompted comments from readers about the need for a Bad Poetry contest, along the lines of the Bulwer-Lytton contest for worst fiction. Slate magazine has just announced exactly that -- a bad poetry contest. There are already tons of entries, and I've only looked at a few. Here are three strong candidates among them. The last poem is head and shoulders above the rest. MYSTERY SOCK Why do you linger in the laundry mat dryer? Holey and worn with lost devotion Still warm in my hand Like a mother’s breath. Was it a case of abandonment? Perhaps your chance for escape From a malodorous foot And an uncaring owner. Will I keep you? I have to My daughter needs a one-eyed puppet Who will make you her cotton king. A mystery no more. ALONE Gently Through the gentle breeze Wafts soft as silk A thought. It is my thought, mine own. To live in Buddhist Temples does not delight me. It is the idea Alone, taking shape, That dawns upon The dessert like thunder. You come to me Now, under a teacup For two. Under a A roller coaster named “Fallen World.” I see the wooden planks Give way. See Helen Throw down the flowers Of Troy for a soda on the midway. The idea is you, but lives In me. All I can do is Gently waft in your Breeze, behind you in the ticket line forever. IN IMITATION OF LISA SIMPSON'S POEM TO SNOWBALL I had a dog, his name was Gus, Whose lust eventually consigned him to dust. Whenever he spied some pert lil’ poochie, He’d drop what ere it was that he be doing, Cuz he liked nothing as much as he did his coozie, And nothing could sway him from doing his wooing, Truth be told, with all good men tried and true, This tragic flaw befalls not a few. Whether human, feline, or canine beasties, Whatever be ye accursed species, Please be sure to look both ways, Or you’ll end up like Gus one of these days-- A bus catching old Gus in flagrante delicto! So heed my tale of grief and woo, And mind this dreadful dire warning: Be ye chaste or be ye horny, Fickle or brave, Remember ye be male, So when ye be chasing some tail, To keep this side of the awful grave, Stay within your curfew and your bound, For no quest for money or for mate Merits the horrendous terrible fate Of this good and faithful pussy hound. [The author of In Imitation has clearly studied her McGonagall.] |