Our annual BAD POETRY CONTEST starts today!
Okay, everyone, set your questions for agents aside for a week, because THE MOST IMPORTANT WEEK IN THE PUBLISHING YEAR IS HERE AGAIN. I’m speaking, of course, about our annual Bad Poetry Contest — the time when writers, editors, agents, and publishers all come together to share their true inner selves, which are all bad. This isn’t just art. It’s a chance to reveal your true badness, by writing a wonderfully awful poem. (Let’s pause for a moment of silence.)
It’s my birthday week, and we celebrate on the blog the first week each May with bad poetry. So bring it on — your
horrible haiku, lousy limericks, terrible tankas, smarmy cinquains, awful acrostics, crappy couplets, dreadful diamontes, appalling acrostics… You get the picture (even if it’s clouded by my atrocious alliteration). For those not familiar, I’m a poet on the inside. Unfortunately, those poet genes seem to have decided to reside in my colon, so all the poetry is crappy. However, there’s a rich history of great writers creating awful poetry. Ogden Nash was wonderful at it. Dorothy Sayers tried her hand at it. PG Wodehouse once wrote, “With a hey nonny-nonny and a hot cha-cha, and the sound of distant moors…” (He did. Really.) You see, rather than droning on about the meaning of life, they understood that people who love great writing tend to take themselves too seriously. So every once in a while we need to sit down, relax, and let somebody whack us on the side of the head with a board. Here’s your chance to do some whacking.
This is all done because I don’t actually represent any poetry, since it can’t make me any money. And also because I’m just not deep enough to understand why someone looking at a stupid red wheelbarrow drenched with rainwater is supposed to be some sort of damn metaphor for life. (To me, a red wheelbarrow drenched with rainwater needs to be wiped off, then used to haul manure. Preferably by someone else.) However, to the sensitive poetic types, that wheelbarrow represents life and struggle and solid American values like “the freedom to order both french fries AND a blooming onion” and “the freedom for junior high teachers to carry guns in the classroom, in case little Mikey pops off with more of his backtalk again.” You know what I mean, poets. Because you, like me, are sensitive and deep, thoughtful people. I’m filled with deepfulness. Sometimes I have so much thoughtfulosity that I make myself sick, just thinking up new metaphors for life. (Example: “Life is like a merry-go-round… they both have horses.”) And I want to share this gift with all of you, by inviting you to send me your bad poem.
The rules are simple:
1. There’s no birthday poetry allowed. This isn’t a chance to tell me how wonderful I am; it’s a chance to poke fun at yourself and others by giving us some truly awful art. So “Happy Birthday to my Nana, You are really top banana” will get you disqualified — and possibly wounded, if I ever run into you in a bar.
2. You take yourself seriously. (Check out the previous years’ badness by looking through the archives.) So if you send in “Roses are red, violets are blue,” the Poetry Police may show up at your door and beat you to a bloody pulp.
3. You write a bad poem and stick it in the “comments” section below. Um… that’s it. So what are you waiting for? Badness awaits!
Oh — this year, there’s another fabulous Grand Prize to the winner. Previous years have given us such great awards such as a lava lamp, a copy of the book HOW TO GOODBYE DEPRESSION (with the catchy subtitle “If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Every Day. Malarky? Or Effective Way?”), and once I actually gave away my copy of the Neil Diamond 45-record, “I Am, I Said,” since it contained the classic bad poetry lyrics: “I am, I said, to no one there, and no one heard at all not even the chair.” (Neil Diamond: Bad Poetry God.) This year’s fantabulous, not-to-be-missed Grand Prize? An actual printed copy of the novel MOON PEOPLE, which several people have said is simply the worst novel currently being sold on Amazon! If you’re interested, here’s how the author describes the book: “The story focuses on one Man by the Name of David Braymer and his adventures from High school teacher to 1st Science Officer on board the Lunar Base 1 Mobile Base Station and his encounters with Alien Life forms through out our universe and the space Battle of all battles David experiences.”
Who can resist that sort of temptation? And by the way, you owe it to yourself to go to Amazon and read the 81 five-star reviews of MOON PEOPLE. They are sarcastic, and they are a RIOT. Some of the comments include, “The truly astounding prose of this book seems eerily familiar to me. I think I wrote something like it when I was 13” and “After reading the heroic story of Captain David Braymer, 1st Science Officer of the space ship USS Lunar Base One, I feel as if I have been unbound from the restraints put in place by a dozen English teachers” and “I read and tears fell from my eyes. Only 2 other times my tears fell from my eyes. One, I poured a bottle of hot sauce into my eyes on accident and the other, my brother put a hook to my underwear and pulled it with his bike. This is the final tear that will come from my eyes after reading this book as I laying dying in my bed from syphilis.”
From one bad poet to another. Happy birthday to me — let the Bad Poetry begin!
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There once was a girl named Lori,
Whose family was somewhat poory.
What?
Nothing rhymes with Lori!
They weren’t really all that poor
But their life was somewhat a bore.
And they had a neighbor named Chip
Who was a pain in the hip.
What?
I didn’t think I should use the other word and besides, it doesn’t
rhyme with Chip!
Anyway, she’s glad now she has another face
To think of when she hears that name…
And although it’s a bit belated,
She knows Chip MacGregor will be elated,
When he receives this terrible poem
To wish him a happy birthday!
A little late.
What?
He’s a little weird like that.
A Terrible Exercise in Rhyme and Rhythm
by
ME
I looked in the mirror and what did I see?
A wonderful poet looking back at me.
My poems were wonderful… excellent!
But no one would pay me… not even one cent!
So I figured that I would try to write better
But perfecting perfection? yeah, I’m a go-getter
I rolled up my sleeves and broke out my new pen
I wrote and I wrote… and I wrote yet again
a masterpiece poured from deep in my soul
so I persevered and reached my new goal
The words were exactly what I had envisioned
I knew it was perfect. No need for revision!
I submitted the poem to an agent named Betty
and included dark chocolate and bright orange confetti
I waited to see when she’d send me my check
I acted so calm, but inside I was wrecked!
Three months passed by with no word. None at all!
four months, then five… I decided to call.
I called every day. (I really like talking)
Apparently Ms. Betty thought that I was stalking.
So now I am writing, awaiting the judge
I’ve slipped her some chocolate with white, caramel fudge…
An Ode to Tinkling- to the tune of our favorite twinkling star tune
By: Gideon
Tinkle tinkle in the pot
You can use it when I’m not
Some things are so nice to share
But not upon my porcelain chair
Tinkle tinkle in the pot
You can use it when I’m not
Tinkle tinkle in the chairs
A place for all our derrieres
Sometimes we just need to sit
We all have to take a shhhh!
Tinkle tinkle in the chairs
A place for all our derrieres
Tinkle tinkle on the throne
A sign of passage, that you’re grown
Soon that passage once more ends
You find you’re wearing some Depends
Tinkle tinkle on the throne
A sign of passage, that you’re grown
Tinkle tinkle on a tree
Martinis aren’t for you and me
Threw back four and we felt fine
Is this your elbow; is it mine?
Tinkle tinkle on a tree
Martinis aren’t for you and me
Tinkle tinkle now in jail
How do I go inside this pail?
Do I sit or should I squat?
Why on earth did I get caught?
Tinkle tinkle now in jail
How do I go inside this pail?
Tinkle tinkle if you’re free
It’s a gift, believe you me
Share the thrones and share the pots
Give the gift you selfish snots
Tinkle tinkle everywhere
Just make sure police aren’t right there
Zere vanz vas a chocolat bani
made all out of stale honi
eating ze kurds ‘n vey
But he sat on a bean
and blew out his spleen
and the rain vashed him avay
Oh, the Solemn Joys of Christmas: By Me
Sweet Christmas nostalgia fills me
As I reflect on these Memor-ies
I recall:
Burly Men, timid Women, and fat Teenagers alike,
Shrieking aloud happily in unison like Little Tikes.
You see, Christmas is really here,
Please don’t drink too much Beer.
Youths run about hollering and Screaming,
Gifts make Their faces Be beaming.
Joyful partying people savor this Occasion,
Silly children formulate Up words like “Yoccasion”
Everyone Screams and Hugs Everyone there,
Because all things Absolutely Perfect are in the air.
Gifts open with happy Wailing At the tops of lungs,
Every person on the planet Is happy, including nuns.
Wrapping paper is hurled up into the Sky,
As children unwrap Things and do not Die.
Guffawing kids fire Orbs of ice shards at others’ heads,
From the Moment they Rip free of their beds.
The fire toasts Marshmallows as it does crackle,
Maybe someone will receive a gift of Spackle.
Seven billion people Smile oh So super wide
That their Faces rip in half (twelve of Them died)
The happiness Is so much that all Burst into song,
Wars Immediately called Off forever after so long.
Instead of Walking, everyone Dances,
During this season, Lancers own Lances.
Mexican Crime Lords and their Rival Gangs call the fight quits,
And embrace each other with their dirty little mitts.
The singing isn’t Enough: Now everybody yodels,
Kids mispronounce things, i.e.: “Ramen ‘Nodels’”
Everyone smilingly Gives Away all their money,
Why are my scrambled eggs Runny?
Human Beings cha-cha in the streets,
Satisfied with their Cute Parakeets.
Santa hats caress many Heads,
As people giggle like they’re Off Their Meds.
Holly and mistletoe Hang in every place Possible,
If moss Could grow On them, they’d be Mossable.
As night falls And the Celebration dies down,
People’s Sentences Still Contain Nouns.
What rather Extol should we Than Christmas Day?
And yes, I’m aware That we’re actually in May.
Lydia has been stopping by the Christmas store at the mall. A great metaphor for Bad Poetry, I think.
Once upon a time
I only had a dime
to spend on what was mine
but really that was fine.
So I went and bought a lime
even though I wanted nine
but maybe that was a sign
to find my valentine.
But if you think I’d whine
or cry beneath a pine
and drink a glass of wine
that’s not what I design.
I know I tow the line
so maybe I should resign
and cease this bad poem rhyme
and therefore I decline.
Are you Argentine?
Writing under a pine?
Fighting malaria with your Quinine?
Alphonse the alpaca felt awful
From eating filleted falafel
He should have packed alfalfa
For it is not “Ow!”-full
Nor makes him fall off ill
Poor Alphonse Alpaca.
I love Alphonse the Alpaca
Poor Alphonse Alpaca
Full of filleted falafel no room left for alfalfa
Tumbling like a weed
‘cross many a steed
grazing on daisies at dawn
He falls off a cliff
and breaks not a sniff
The savannah ends up redrawn
A great children’s book this can be!
Good one! 🙂
Lisa’s attorney just called me. Something about patent infringement. But we’re working on the dramatic rights.
Keep taking the tablets, Lisa.
LOL, Chip. Keep getting older. I’m sure I can do worser next year.
A Really Bad Poem about Really Bad Poems
Hours and hours of grading bad verse
Sometimes I cringe; sometimes I curse
How am I qualified to judge the worth
Of a heartfelt soul giving birth
To rhyme, to meter, to images strong?
How can I say he got it all wrong?
Sure he sounds a bit like Dr. Seuss
With all the amateur rhyme running loose
And sure that creates a confusing tone
When he tries to describe how he feels alone
So alone that he resorts to a long, sharp knife
To end his pain and end his life
His pedestrian style I have tried to mime
But THIS poem is teaching me it’s hard to rhyme
So why does he do it? Why can’t he break free
And put me out of my misery!
And, oh the woe I endure every week
When I open each journal and take a peek
One student fancies himself like the Bard
But each poem reads like a Hallmark card
Another has the angst of Plath, no doubt
But nothing substantial to rant about
And then there’s the girl who is oh so fiery
That her poems should only reside in her diary
But who am I to grade such a representation of thought?
Let’s face it, my track record is not so hot
For instance, this poem that is just about to cease
Is now deemed by me a MASTERPIECE.
Excellently bad, Jeanne. Thanks!
Fairwell fairwell thee memories of mine youth!
No more notes from Epstein’s mother, it’s the truth.
Gone is Farah of large hair and teeth ablaze.
And half the Blues Brothers lost in the haze.
Oh Latka! Now who will fix the cabs?
And Archie, ooohhh Archie, Meathead’s got this tab.
Edith, too? Say it ain’t so!
Even Uncle Jesse says “Bo and Luke it’s time to go.”
What of that witch? The cute one named Sam?
Gone with Pa Ingalls to the promised land.
And whatchoo talkin’ ’bout Arnold? It can’t be your time!
Not even Buffy’s family affair keeps the young in line.
They’ve all left me, my TV family.
Alone with nothing but bad reality.
So I’ll tune in to TV Land when things get mundane.
Just me and Tattoo watchin’ for dat plane.
“Smiles! Smiles everyone!”
George Washington sat on his porch in repose
He looked over his fields and supposed
“I am no fool, this farm needs mules”
“Bring me a jackass” he said
“So my mares can be bred”
The Ass came from Spain
But to Washington’s disdain
The royal gift did abstain
Until a jennet was brought
To confused the poor animal’s brain
Subterfuge won out
And soon mules were running about!
The End.
Mule love! A wonderful theme for Bad Poetry! (Let’s call the Captain and Tenille: “Mule Susie, Mule Sam, do the jitterbug in Mule-land, and they shimmy. Mule-Sam so skinny.”)
You ain’t right! Muskrats got nothin’ on them mules! Oh yeah..mules are sterile, never mind…Chip you can have a jackass love song!
My daddy always said, “You’re the kind of guy,
Who’d chop down a willow in it’s prime.”
And that, my friend, is exactly why,
You never ask change for a half-dime.
Because you’ll only get a nickel back.
And nobody likes Nickelback.
Nobody.
It’s true. I don’t really like Nickelback.
NSFW
I didn’t know what it meant
so I opened it anyway
this is what I read
paraphrased
man:
stop talking so much
there are better things you can do with your mouth
woman:
so I should just shut my mouth?
man:
no open wider and I’ll show you
my boss was right behind me
and she didn’t find it funny
now I am sitting on this corner
asking strangers for some money
Serves you right.
I guess I shouldn’t complain, there are better things I could be doing…
Vroom, rumble rumble…
Well, Clyde had finally left her, but Miss Tilly didn’t sigh
she had herself an idée and things she planned to try.
She needed cash and so she sold off most of pappy’s farm
but she kept a couple acres way out back behind the barn.
The folks in town all shook their heads it made no sense a’tall,
she’d sold the farm, but kept the swamp, and moved there in the fall.
Her home was now a double wide, surrounded by old junk,
the biggest piece a pickup truck jest oozin’ oily gunk.
The quilting guild did miss her, and her Ball jars gathered dust
when Tilly next was seen in town her hands were red with rust!
There was a gleam in Tilly’s eye, her hair was cropped off short.
She read a poster on the wall and gave a scornful snort!
And then she disappeared again, and folks heard lots of noise…
a rumbling growling from the swamp that scared the Compton boys.
The night the fairgrounds opened wide the mystery was solved…
Miss Tilly drove up in her truck, and Clyde, he stood enthralled.
The truck was neon purple, its suspension held it high
the engine growl was deafening–its wheels were eight feet high.
Mud running was the main event, all Clyde could do was pout.
When Tilly put the pedal down, mud flew, a mighty spout.
Now Tilly has a contract she competes in huge arenas
driving jet powered monster pickups—don’t say you haven’t seen her…
I might have gone out with Tilly in my younger days. Thanks for bringing up my heartbreak.
That’s what these are all about, right?
Squirrel Tooth Nadine
It was a long, gray, cool, dull, boring afternoon.
Homer wished he’d never broken up with Carla June.
The last six-pack was empty; his guitar was out of tune.
There weren’t no sense in makin’ up, she said never was too soon.
Homer thought about his dinner, couldn’t face another bean,
Decided it was time to go a’huntin’ with Nadine.
The shells were in his pocket; he had a burlap sack,
He grabbed his rifle, shut the door, and set off down the track.
Chorus:
To hunt with Nadine, Nadine, Squirrel Tooth Nadine
She had the biggest white incisors anyone had ever seen
Her hair was grayish yellow brown. She hardly ever went to town.
But when it came to squirrel talk, you couldn’t beat Nadine.
Her home was in the Big Oak Wood. With sagging, mossy roof it stood.
So Nadine learned as few else would, how squirrels spoke, she knew they could.
She hated them, the fur tailed rats, they ate her birdseed, drove her bats.
She knew each cussing thing they spoke; they filled her nightmares till she woke.
When Homer sauntered to her place, a smile split her toothy face
Here was a man with appetite, and squirrel stew would be just right.
Before they left, she set her table; Homer knew that she was able—
To skin a varmint mighty quick, her squirrel stew was always thick
Chorus:
They walked a few yards from her door, and sitting on the forest floor
Nadine began to chatter; just what she said, well that don’t matter.
It was coarse, and it was rude. The rodents quickly knew her mood.
Homer’s ammo found its mark, the burlap sack was full ’fore dark.
Across the table, Homer ate, and Nadine’s squirrel stew was great.
Her squirrelly face was calm, serene, and as she chewed, no tooth was seen.
And Homer mused, yes this might be, the start of romance ’neath the trees.
’Cause when it came to squirrel stew, you couldn’t beat Nadine’s!
Now THERE’S some poetry, my friends. This is awful, Heid. Thanks.
Beer Truckin’
It was cool, damp and foggy on that April twenty four,
And Harvey, known as “Beer Man” had the pedal to the floor
Seven hundred fifty cases to deliver to the store
Then he’d have to turn around and load it up with more.
Oh he loved beer truckin, beer truckin, people greet him with a grin
Yes he loved beer truckin, beer truckin, people greet him with a grin.
Well there was hunger in the suburb, the possum, skunk and coon
Were awakened by the children as they played that afternoon
So they huddled in the branches, or they huddled in a den
A waiting for the shining moon to pierce the fog and then—
They would go can raidin, can raidin, finding fish sticks and much more
They would go can raidin, can raidin, eating melon rinds and more.
It was cool, damp and foggy on that April twenty four
Seven hundred fifty cases to deliver to the store
And Harvey, known as “Beer Man” had the pedal to the floor
As the miles rolled past him on old highway forty-four.
Oh he loved beer truckin’, beer truckin’, people greet him with a grin
Yes he loved beer truckin’, beer truckin’, people greet him with a grin.
So the varmints filled their bellies marching up and down the street
’cause each waitin’ garbage barrel held a different tasty treat
And when their thirst took over, well they headed for the creek.
Just to cross the four-lane avenue took quite a lucky streak.
They had been can raidin, can raidin, and they’d left a mess behind
They had been can raidin, can raidin, only water on their minds
Seven hundred fifty cases, Miller Light and Rolling Rock
All the foaming tall brown bottles filled with ale and stout and Bock
And Harvey, known as “Beer Man”, held the pedal to the floor
Though it was cool and foggy on that April twenty-four.
Oh he loved beer truckin, beer truckin, people greet him with a grin
Yes he loved beer truckin, beer truckin, people greet him with a grin.
Thirsty varmints reached the roadside though their paws were getting sore
Crossed the first two lanes of traffic, could they make it for two more?
Rumbling wheels and glowing headlights getting closer, shining bright—
As they crossed three lanes of traffic, coon went left, and skunk went right.
They had been can raidin, can raidin, and they’d left a mess behind
They had been can raidin, can raidin, only water on their minds.
As the beer truck headed eastward Harvey’s eye now held a tear
No more grins and no more laughter, no more voices filled with cheer
It had changed. It was the worst night of his twenty-year career,
On this foggy April evening, He’d deliver skunky beer.
Oh he loved beer truckin, beer truckin, they used to greet him with a grin
Yes he loved beer truckin, beer truckin, they used to greet him with a grin.
And who doesn’t like beer truckin’, Heidi?
So should the lyrics go to Nashville? 😉 ,,,just joking.
Monkey in a cage
Screaming out your rage
At your situation.
Doesn’t it seem sad,
You harried, hairy lad,
Mindless with frustration?
Fifteen feet to walk.
People point and gawk.
Monk your freedom’s gone now.
No more climbing trees,
Chatting with the breeze:
Monk what have we done now?
Well, it’s time to go.
Don’t let sorrow show.
People stare so, laughing.
Monkey they don’t care
That we know and share
Facts of souls in passing.
Watch us scheme and plot.
Watch us scream with rage.
Look at all the smart
Monkeys in a cage.
This is John Robinson, with a poem about his office. Or possibly his writing group. That’s bad, John. Nice work.
Forbidden Love
Oh cold, dry heart of petrified wood, why have you come to life?
How did love spark, when did it start to kindle?
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
There is no safety, no where to escape the flames inside
that urge me to mate like two deer in the meadow.
Burn, burn, burning across the meadow of my loins,
no chance to stop and quench the fire,
or I will burn, burn, BURN.
Run, run, RUN for cover.
Cover the fire that burns.
Smother, douse, extinguish the flames
that ravage body, soul, and mind.
Mind, thinking of you… how you started this fire…
How you played with my kindling and left me to burn.
Burn, burn, BURN… In HELL
with YOU…
Thoughtful. Sensitive. And totally passionate. Reminds me of my 7th grade dance class. (Somewhere Carla is wondering if I was “burning across the meadow of my loins” when I asked her to dance to “Hey Jude.”) True badness here, Gina. Thanks.
You lost me at 7th grade dance class… then again at Carla. You remember her name?? Anyway, glad I could be bad enough for the honors bestowed upon me here. My badness will now go into hibernation until next year! 🙂
Food Allergies
She smelled like fried brisket
And biscuits
Baked
In effervescent chars of chicken finger
Kickin’
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
Anymore
As far as I know.
Sharyn, I love this. Which means, of course, that it is awful. When II see this I picture depth and emotion and naked taste buds smothered in marzipan. Wonderfully bad.
Canoodle a poodle?
I’d rather doodle!
Spoon with a coon?
I’d rather swoon!
Climb a sand dune?
I’d rather festoon!
Croon with a toon?
I’d rather saloon!
Tease a tycoon?
That’s inopportune!
Hug a baboon?
Not at twelve noon!
Moon a spittoon?
Why would anybody do that?
I have photos of Clay Jones canoodling a poodle. I’m blackmailing him so that he’ll take me to a saloon. With a baboon.
Alright, we can saloon together and I’ll bring Zorba, just like last time. I think you’ve learned well enough that she doesn’t always understand teasing.
C is for Contract, the goal of this poem.
O is for Opus, I promise a magnum.
N is for Negotiate, a skill that I lack.
T is for True-blue, I’ll never talk smack.
R is for Represent, the goal of this game.
A is for Agent, whom I’ll never ever blame.
Yes, C is for Contract, I need one so badly.
T is for Take me on and I’ll give my best gladly.
The best part of this is that you misspelled “CONTRACT” as “CONTRAYT,” which alone qualifies this for the finals, Sheila. Nice work!
::executing a modest curtsy.
By firing squad.
Learnin’ to Write (My really bad poem)
So I thought I write a book
Maybe someone would give it a look
So I sat in my room and threw down my thought
Hoping that someday this book would be bought
Little did I know that writing takes skill
Not just something you should print at will
Try an unknown amazon writer and you might find
A really good book or one that made you wish you were blind
Making all the mistakes of a new writer is fine
Only if you want to not make a dime
So I set out to learn once I knew I was dumber
Only to learn that there was so much more bummer
Heroes and archetypes and ending with a hook
Story arches, conflict, and viscerals and are all part of a
book
Will I ever learn enough to get it all right?
I don’t know, but I’ll try with all my might.
Is this bad enough? It took five minutes to write.
It’s bad, Janet, though perhaps not bad enough. However, Boris was Badanov.
I’ll try less hard to do worse next year.
“No More People”
By The Man on the Moon
The shelves are bent
by the weight of the books
that tell me how
to fill in the nooks
and crannies of the open doc
so agents and publishers can make me a lock
and key the words
one letter at a time
to find us a rhythm
to gain us a rhyme
and tune out the fluff
of multiple stuff
like commas, quotations,
and all that is rough
draft as we may
edit as they can
edit some more (okay, that’s enough)
then it’s out the door
framed for the publisher
and the agent too
to peruse and sift
cuddle and coo
coo as they might
shout from the steeple
“Finally! It’s Here! The 4th Moon People!!”
The final sequel.
Will there be a prequel?
or two or three
Just say no.
Save a tree
or two or three.
For the cow.
For the cat.
For the hey, diddle, diddle.
and all the cheese.
in the faddle-fiddle.
With a hey nonny-nonny and a hot cha-cha…
*High School Heartbreak*
Since our breakup I have to confess
My emotions are quite a mess.
I thought we had something, you and me,
But blatant cheating was our reality.
You are now the polar vortex to my soul
Oh and your haircut looks like a bowl.
So go and date that cheerleader thing
Enjoy your life as homecoming king.
I’ll be fine, you just wait and see
One day someone will notice me.
And when they do I’ll rise and shine
And say that’s right, this man is mine.
But for now I eat cookies and hide in bed
Sad and remembering all that was said.
Trying to heal these deep emotional scars
While I watch Dancing with the Stars.
While I watch—-
Dancing with the Stars.
Excellent. And Dancing with the Stars will cure any broken heart, Julie. This is a wonderfully bad poem – faux depth, juvenile emotion, stoopid resolution. Love it!
Lacerations are red,
contusions are blue,
a cliff, and a push,
and a fall from view.
It questions the validity of friendships.
Also very well done. You clearly understand Bad Poetry.
“Let It Go!”
“Let It Go!”
sang the mean, icey FROZEN ho
as she changed her dress
from modest to “fresh”
and wouldn’t follow her own proviso.
She wiggled and strutted
like an arrogant, runway model,
and sang, and sang, and sang;
but the rhythm of her voice and words
didn’t match her choice of words
and together, they sounded like rusty, heavy, metal gates
when they clang.
So, to have my granddaughter watch this louse,
takes a great deal of explanation,
for if Elsa hadn’t unfroze her sister,
then I would have gone postal on The Mouse.
Brilliantly bad, Moon People! The Bad Poetry Critical Society loved this one (and, let’s face it, they all hated the FROZEN ho).
Roses are blue, Violets are red,
especially when you’ve been kicked in the head.
Just ask the man from Nantucket,
who concussed his dreams into a bucket;
but before he left,
he said something deft,
and it’s here that I’m going to duck it.
I know that man from Nantucket! Excellent. Thanks for the references to Bad Limericks, Moon People!
There is a time for everything,
There is a time for all.
But when you get kicked from behind,
It is a time to fall.
I would like everyone reading this to notice that we now are official — this year’s Bad Poetry Contest has elicited participation from both “Chip” AND “Dale.”
Have you ever had a thought
That wouldn’t go away?
It would haunt you,
Each and every day?
That is what happened to me once.
I thought that thought would make me crazy.
It came to me one day
When I was being lazy.
It made me jump.
It made me shout.
It made me gulp
And spin and turn about.
It kept on poking,
So I went out side
To take a walk.
That thought made me want to hide.
I decided to listen
To that thought,
And at that moment
I forgot…
What was I doing?
It must have been.
Something had been brewing.
But now, just then…
That fleeting thought
Had just been forgot.
Maddy, that is truly bad. You’re officially a Bad Poet. Congratulations. Your certificate is in the mail.