The Tenth Annual Bad Poetry Contest continues…
It’s your last chance… If you’re a Bad Poet, you can achieve some small measure of fame by entering our tenth annual Bad Poetry Contest. But it ends this week!
A bit of history: Every year, on the week of my birthday, we take a break from talking books and publishing, and we focus on Bad Poetry. The lousy rhyme schemes, the faux depth, the aura of “look at how sensitive I am,” and we just let it all hang out there. So if you, too, are a Bad Poet, I extend my personal invitation to go to the comments section and let us see your worst. Lousy limericks, crappy couplets, horrible haiku, freaking-lousy free verse… it’s all there, waiting for you, like a warm glass of milk at the end of a hot day.
So don’t delay — start emoting now! Drop in and share some of your Bad Self. This year’s winner gets a huge prize: a genuine, autographed edition of my Y2K Family Survival Guide (the book that saved western civilization as we know it). What do you have to lose except your Monday morning blues? Stop in and dump your deep thoughts, people!
Dog park! Trailer park!
Wagging tails, waving towels.
Sniffing noses, staring eyes,
Mutt mitt for poo, one-ply for poo.
Dog and Person, out of place, no home of their own.
Dog park and trailer park, the same.
“An Ode to the Joys of Living at the Dog Park” — catchy title, Marie!
Author Anne Schroeder sent this poem to me and asked that it be included…
Every dining house in Mudville knew old Casey as a fan
He was known by few and many as a huge, beef-eating man.
A legend at McLintocks, (fifty-ouncers at a downing),
Left his fellow diners gawking and the restaurant owners
But his real fame came the day when he made himself a wager,
To overwhelm his toilet, a foe to whom he was no stranger.
With McLintock’s steak for starters, he added pie for dinner,
He had no doubt, this time, he’d belly up a winner.
Then came the fateful moment, when nature him did call,
He smirked and hitched his belly, ready now to give his all.
He was bursting for the challenge; he’d struggle hard to send
The best he had to offer to the cocky porcelain.
He stepped into the room, faced his foe and closed the door,
He fiddled with his trousers and dropped them to the floor.
He settled back to victory with a paperback for reading,
And braced his feet and squirmed until he found the perfect
Inside his sports arena humid air grew thick with battle,
The toilet bowl was moaning and the window sills did rattle.
And folks in Mudville who lived downwind, on that day
Were witness–albeit reluctantly–to Casey’s mighty fray.
The time came to discover who the victor was to be
He turned the tiny handle and waited for to see.
The loo it moaned and gurgled, yeah it gave a mournful sound,
It sucked and whirled and struggled but it took his off’ring
And Casey hobbled wanly, barely made it to his bed,
Where his wife found him lying, thin and haggard, nearly dead.
A shell of former glory, mighty Casey met his match
When he tried to kill his toilet with a load of flatulence.
There was this chimp who was a wimp,
All hairy and all strong was he.
He swung about from tree to tree each day,
And shouted out his revelry.
They knew him all who was a chimp,
For miles and miles the jungle round.
But of the chimp who was a wimp,
There was no soul who dreamed it so.
Until one day another came, a chimp,
Who was a chimp and was no wimp.
The first, he bare his teeth for all to see,
And hung them out and wide.
But bite he could not for his fear,
Nor use his limbs, this wimp who was a chimp.
He roared and hollered in such state and died.
With just a hand within his throat, deep down inside.
Touching and sensitive, Jerry. Wait — let me wipe my eye. Thanks.
How oft the ticking clock of time,
Like water dripping in a cave,
Seems generously to rhyme
While thoughts redundant rave.
Like many footed millipedes
Which creep from under fallen logs
We are confused in words and deeds
And scattered, jump like rabid frogs.
Thus are we all constrained by life
As order we seek to impose
The seconds pass, consumed by strife,
An echoing as time still flows.
Perhaps in tales remembered still,
Perhaps in things to come,
The memories that linger will
No longer seem so dumb.
Who doesn’t love a poem that features rabid frogs?
In the year of 2016,
A legend was getting older.
His minions were rebelling,
Their bad prose was getting bolder.
Dare I hop on board and try my hand
at writing bad poetry?
First I’d better check the facts,
I’m such a geek for history.
If a birthday poem in earned 5 shillings in year of 1890 –
about $20 today,
Once my agent gets his measly percent,
Is my trouble all its worth?
Should I write him a greeting,
to celebrate his birth?
Since being born in 1958 makes turning 58
a rare occasion,
Maybe he’ll read this and get a few yucks,
But since the poem is for him I wonder…
If he’ll still take my three bucks?
I can answer one of those questions for you, Carla… If you’re paid five shillings, I get two farthings and a ha’penny, I think. Possibly a quid. (I always wanted a quid.)