WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Alas, but thy judge hath been down and far past th’ability to think within reason; for, upon the eve past, she was blessed (or cursed!) with the foulest of head colds!

But, finally, she hath the time and mental strength to appoint a winner:

The Sonnet 73 butchering

by Gary

That time of year thou decides to do some baking and behold
Knowing the results will be that bad my shame do hang
Upon finding I forgot to turn the oven on and thy food is still cold
Bare ruined I shall burn all food until the cry PLEASE LORD NO MORE is sang
In me thou see’st the worst kitchen abominations performed anywhere in the land that day
As after sunset fadeth the Fire Engine arrives to put out the oven fires from the west
Which by and by blackend food is thrown away
Death’s icy grip can be seen in the stodgy bread as it refuses to rise as long as it do rest
In my donuts the taste of vileness and repulsiveness does such fire
That on the ashes of the badly overcooked Rhubard crumble do lie
As the death-bed do lyeth anyone who tastes the food with the use by date do expire
Consum’d is the food not by any sane man but dumped in the bin by any brave passersby
This thou has bakethed food with a nauseating odour so strong
To love the simple beauty of a frozen microwave meal I do long

Congratulations, Gary! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

I know I say so nearly every week, but I had such trouble choosing one winner. I laughed, in pain. I groaned on behalf of The Bard and what you all did to his name. Gary’s inched ahead by means of horribly rambling lines of no common length that I’m certain Shakespeare would never deign to consider, let alone pen.

The rest of the entrants may safely assume they won 1.5 place:

Based on Richard III

by Bruce Goodman

I had a Molly, till a Tommy killed him;
I had a Barney, till a Tommy killed him:
Thous hadst a Molly, till a Tommy killed him;
Thou hadst a Tommy, till a Tommy killed him.
She for a Molly weeps, and so do I;
I for a Chloe weep, so doth not she:
These babes for Chloe weep and so do I;
I for a Molly weep, so do not they.
I never realized until now just how many pet cats we’ve had over the years.

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

It was a dagger to my throat,
They had departed
In the still darkness of a winter’s night
Gone, with nary a backwards glance
Whilst I supped with my comrades
Before the hearth burning bright
Angst tore my soul,
As my bloodless lips parted,
In a cry of mournful sorrow.
I recollect it well, for the first rays of light
Broke the clouds that hung darkly
For the commencement of the morrow.
I gnashed my teeth in fury,
As witches three berated me,
They had warned me of falsifying glory,
But I had ignored them in my nativity.
Whom was the portent devised
That the chocolate cake could so disappear
With one foul swoop,
Of one’s own mouth, it did so appear.

—–

Richard II’s Lament for Lost Socks

by Shaun Jex

For good gravy’s sake, let us sitteth upon the ground
And tell weepy type stories about the death of socks
Forsooth some were dropped behind the dryer and never found
Whilst some unraveled after being stuffed with pointy rocks
Some wore thin ‘til their sole was naught but a gaping hole
And thus were promptly tossed into yon dustbin to expire
Whilst other simply vanished like as though into a black hole
Still more grew to smell as though dragged through a mire
All vanished! For within the empty sock drawer
There sits naught but a few mismatched pairs
To be worn, like the raven said (oops wrong poet!) nevermore

—–

Below me (the rewrite)

by Ruth Scribbles

This below nothing:
to mine other be false,
And it canst be behind,
as the day is the night,
Thou must not then be true to any woman.

– – –
Why Did I Birth Thee??

Whoa is thee! Thou mad knave!
Gettest thee down into the cave.
Thou hast burned mine toast
Thou shouldest quake and tremble
I beyond sorrowful.
Thou art vile!!
I detest the day thee was birthed!!

—–

No More Brown Sugar Cinnamon…

by Masercot

With heavy heart I watched you go
Your five friends gone and eaten
I meant to have one but no
I ate the second like a cretin
Neither full nor hungry did I feel
From the first two frosted pastries
I resolved to eat the next two and make a meal
In a sullen fit of wastry
So, intact only two remained
The other four were spent
I, for dessert, ate the twained
And, that’s where all the Pop Tarts went

—–

Thank you all for a terrible experience. You’ve earned your rotten fruit for the week. Please return on the morrow for a new prompt.

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Gary: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:

8 thoughts on “WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

  1. Pingback: Dare To Be Terrible – The Great Panjandrum

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