The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 4/18 – 4/24/2020

Greetings! In case you’re lost, this is The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. We’ve been assailing the senses and assaulting the sensibilities since November of 2018. The management would like to apologize for today’s delay in posting a prompt. Her laptop computer met a most unfortunate fate at the other end of a bokken

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This is the most recent photo we have of The Deceased.

But, let’s not dwell on the past, or on the fact that the children now have no web camera with which to Zoom for schoolwork. Read some basics on bad poetry here. Next, read this week’s specifics:

  1. Let’s Topic on a humorous end to a useful object. Irony is encouraged.
  2. The Length is between 5 and 155 words.
  3. Rhyming is optional, but recommended.
  4. Make it terrible! Make me rue the day I ever started a contest based on bad poetry …until the next week’s prompt.
  5. Rating: PG or cleaner. You can do it.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (April 24 or 24 April, Bryntin) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please let me know if your pingback and/or poem do not show up within a day.

Have fun!

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The Finger

Keep your hands in the car, his mother always warned.
But Tom just laughed, and waved his fingers;
Her advice, he always scorned.

Then, one day, in teenage-hood, he disobeyed too far:
In response to, Please don’t, Tom, he waved just one finger
And laughed, a Har har har.

But Fate or whatever in-charge-of-mothers-and-irony Saint
Must have watched and taken the wheel
‘Cause if Tom wanted, he cain’t

Wave mid-finger or hand
At all.

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

 

Photo credit: Elia Pellegrini

57 thoughts on “The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 4/18 – 4/24/2020

  1. The umbrella

    I wish to tell you about my favourite thing,
    With a hey-nonny-no,
    It’s about my umbrella I wish to sing
    Hey ding a ding, ding.

    I stick my umbrella up a lot
    With a hey-nonny-no,
    Whether it’s raining or not
    Hey ding a ding, ding.

    The other day it hosed down
    With a hey-nonny-no,
    Just as I was leaving to go to town
    Hey ding a ding, ding.

    Suddenly a gust of wind blew it inside out.
    I started to twist and shout.
    What the hell is this all about?
    I was getting wet. No doubt.
    I hope I don’t get gout.
    Hey ding a ding, ding.
    My love for my umbrella was just recently awoken.
    Now it’s broken
    And I’m soakin’.

    Liked by 4 people

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  3. Alas, poor Boris, I knew him well.

    Ode to an automatic lawnmower

    Boris, as we called him,
    made short work of our lawn in
    no time at all for many a year,
    his whirling dervishing music to my ear.

    But one fateful day
    his brain faded away
    and chaos reigned on our green parade
    as anything but lawn was flayed.

    Boris charged and snapped dragons at full pelt,
    (all the while how his innards smelt)
    and mounted kerbs uncurbed
    as he rose to the occasion so recently suburbed.

    Just when I thought his madness was expended
    and his carnationage had ended,
    he climbed the bean poles, snicker-snack,
    and gave the peas no chance, alas, alack.

    There was nothing for it but the mortal blow
    as my axe cleaved poor Boris’s fevered brow
    and he shuddered and turned turtle
    ‘midst the burgeoning lemon myrtle.

    Liked by 3 people

    • PS – The ironic component of my contribution is that I have never owned an automatic lawn mower, let alone a possessed one. The lawnmowing role at our house is undertaken by a nearby grandson, under threat of disinheritance if he demurs. (It will be character-building for him when he discovers that he has inherited two-fifths of five-eighths of my debts.) However his burden will be relieved shortly when we move into our new down-sized forever home (think Tardis with a view), where there will be no lawns. I love the smell of concrete in the morning. 😉

      Liked by 1 person

  4. Dead Mans Chest.

    I saw her here
    I saw her there,
    It would appear
    I saw her everywhere.

    In the school bus
    I sat and stared,
    I dreamed of us
    As if she cared.

    In my fevered mind
    I looked suave and cool,
    She seemed obstinately blind,
    Friends said, kind of cruel.

    Then, as we passed by
    A look, though fleeting
    Registered in her eye-
    Two pupils meeting.

    So it came to pass
    With one come-hither glance
    That Delilah of a lass
    Led this fool a merry glance.

    She had her fun
    At my sad expense,
    Fair heart I’d not won-
    Her warm heart a pretense.

    She left me distraught
    That devils daughter,
    Without a second thought
    Wrenched at my aorta.

    My teen dreams shattered,
    Much like my pride,
    Left bowed and battered-
    Something deep inside me died.

    Now I’ve a busted heart,
    Broken in twain
    The only good bloody part-
    It won’t break ever again

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Five Feet

    It was just five feet
    Oh, so very sweet
    Down the fairway
    With a single play
    Then a chip shot
    Within five feet of the pot
    It was my day!
    Five feet
    Creating victory from defeat
    Sink it and I win
    Endless rounds of gin
    If I miss the hole in the ground
    I buy round after round
    Five feet – I can’t miss
    The ball needs just a little kiss
    Just five feet, for heaven’s sake!

    And that’s why my putter
    Is at the bottom of the lake….

    Liked by 2 people

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  7. Well here goes and I can’t think of a a better subject here then ME…..
    Face it I am a muppet
    As useful as badly worn glove puppet

    The youthful sporting body is sadly no more

    Now this used body constantly needs to visit the drugstore
    I just can’t bend over without making a groan

    I can only move thanks to heaps of cortisone

    Once brimming with dreams of adventure and success
    Now I’m wracked with anxieties and filled with stress

    Everyday is filled with mistake after mistake

    Always sweeping up the stuff I carelessly brake
    Increasingly covered in dust

    With a bank balance which has gone bust

    These days definitely more rounded in the middle

    Watching life fly past featuring only as a second fiddle

    No more than a terrible poetry bard

    Maybe it’s time for me to visit the knackers yard

    Liked by 3 people

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