Chip MacGregor

May 9, 2014

The Bad Poetry Contest heads into the final days…


So here we are on a Friday, and we’re going to wrap up our annual Bad Poetry Contest tomorrow. (In case you’re not part of the in-crowd, we do a Bad Poetry Contest the first week of May every year — my way of celebrating my birthday. And yes, I was born on Mother’s Day. My mom got twin boys that year, which is either a great or a terrible way to celebrate being a mom, I guess… but by the time we came along, she was already a mom a half-dozen times, so maybe there wasn’t that much celebrating left to do.) If you’ve not entered yet, you’re missing out on some great deep and wonderful crud. Examples from this year include this really bad poem from Sharyn:

She smelled like fried brisket
And biscuits
In effervescent chars of chicken finger
Good night to dreams of broken
Madness. And frustrated taste buds
She couldn’t control after
All we believed and never stopped
Because chocolate
Like marzipan
Tricks minds and melts hearts.
Farewell sweetness and salty old
Pickled passion.
She doesn’t smell like brisket
As far as I know.

Or this from MoonPeopleUnite:

Lacerations are red,
contusions are blue,
a cliff, and a push,
and a fall from view.
It questions the validity of friendships.

It’s that sort of deep and meaningful tripe we all want to attain in the contest. There’s also thisfrom Bad Poet Gina [WARNING: FOR MATURE BAD POETS ONLY]…

Oh love, forbidden love.
Like a forgotten camp fire that smolders in the forest
because you forgot to extinguish it.

Smolder, ignite, BURN
Fast and free… wild… FIRE

Burn, burn, burning across the meadow of my loins,
no chance to stop and quench the fire,
or I will burn, burn, BURN.

Just reading it makes me want to burn my computer screen! And there’s much more like that — Bad Poems about Alphonse the Alpaca, an acrostic with the misspelled word “CONTRACT,” the Boston Bruins, and Chick-fil-A (which, in a brilliant bit of Bad Poetry, the author rhymed with “cliche”). Yes… after months of waiting, now YOU can be a part of the excitement. So get out your stinking caps and start constipating, people. Share your Bad Poetry with us in the “comments” section.

And remember, the winner of this year’s Bad Poetry Contest is going to receive a fabulous Grand Prize… a copy of MOON PEOPLE — widely considered to be the worst novel sold on Amazon, and once referred to as “the syrup of Ipecac in print form!” If you haven’t taken the time to go to Amazon and check out the reviews of Moon People, you are missing one of life’s great treats. It has 81 five star reviews, and they are fabulous:

“This is a book. And Also its a Good book, one to read. The auther really has a nack for Good science Fiction telling. Also the Story.”
“This is a book that needs to be read cover to cover by anyone who has ever said ‘It can’t be that hard to write a book!'”
“A storie that speaks too the culture and perpective of the. common American citizen’ (and wolves, to). What is been writen in this Book about Moon People and Hallowen is vary. Inspiring. Move over – hemmingway, steinbeck, twain, and so many.”
“This author is clearly the William Heung of science Fiction.”
“Two words: satire.”

Yes, THIS COULD BE YOURS! So don’t delay — we’re in the last days. Get your Bad Poem in now.

Share :


  • Eurovision says:

    We’re Slavic girls, we know how to use our charming beauty
    Now shake what your mama gave ya!
    Clap your hands to this music
    This is our nature, This is our call
    This is our hot Slavic blood

    Slavic girls are wicked and also smart

    Look at this if you search for the one

    ‘Cause beautiful ladies look as a cake

    You better try them before it’s too late

    Bring out a bottle to make her feel good
    If you don’t believe us we can give you sweet proof
    Our beauty will always take your breathe away
    We show you bake and you understand

    – Actual lyrics from Poland’s Eurovision song contest entry this year.

  • Susan M Watkins says:

    “Ode to Loade”

    I’m so miserable without thee,
    Tis almost like having ye here,
    The agony of yer presence,
    Whence far or uncomfortably near.

    The Richter scale dost measure,
    Like yon crashing chandelier,
    Nary less support around me,
    Than a 3-hook Sears brassiere.

    Twas thermostat more driven,
    To bring comfort o’er my years,
    Hither facts lay scattered ’bout me,
    Kin to notes for trumpeteer.

    Pray rescue flawed decisions,
    Cast besmirched souvenir,
    Like the running of the bulls,
    Besought time to commandeer.

    Thus, I firmly gripped thy wheel,
    And placed foot pon mutineer,
    Yea, not miserable without thee,
    Tis reward to persevere!

    Co-latha-breith sona, Chip.

  • Dianne Matthews says:

    A primordial soup
    Oozing into bowl-shaped nothingness.
    Steam erupts from heat
    Released by the core.

    Pale brown sand covers the landscape
    Of hills and valleys.
    Fruits and nuts burst forth
    Bringing sweetness and nourishing life.

    But woe and double woe!
    A shining metal object crashes onto the innocent surface.
    Within moments–
    Destruction, devastation, annihilation.

    But lo and double lo!
    Take courage my troubled soul.
    For tomorrow
    Planet Oatmeal will be reborn.

  • The Devil says:

    I got a mean little elf in my shoe
    he binds my feet with hot solder and glue
    He turns my toes when I dance
    and he peeks from the leg of my pants
    I yell at him to keep it down at night
    All those elf parties and ale fights
    Now he wants the other shoe
    And the contract he wrote just wont do.
    It’s summer and he’s unraveled one sock
    So I’m taking off the other and switching to Crocs
    That’ll show him.

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