The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Good morning, afternoon, evening, and midnight snack time! It’s time for Terrible Poetry Contest #39.

What the heck is ‘terrible poetry?’ Read our obligatory recommendations and health risks here. The Terrible Poetry Contest and Chelsea Owens will not be held accountable for any writers’ or readers’ desires to gnaw their own legs off after reading.

Interested? Here are this week’s specifics:

  1. The Topic is vacations. Were you in paradise, the envy of all your online ‘friends?’ Did you finally cross off your bucket list trip to sleep atop the grave of Edgar Allen Poe? Or, was your experience a little less than ideal?
  2. As may be expected, this means the Length is postcard parameters. Write your poem home to your parents, to your grandparents, or your pen pal you want to impress.
  3. Rhyme if it works, or if it doesn’t. The choice is yours.
  4. Make it terrible!! Don’t make me sic the camp counselors on you, right after unleashing beach sharks to photo bomb your Leaning Tower of Pisa pic.
  5. Vacations aren’t risqué. This rating can stay PG or cleaner.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (August 23) to submit a poem.

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

For a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Have fun!

 

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome to the 38th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest! This is a special week, because the infamous Bruce Goodman has offered to judge!!!

If you’re new or looking for a brush-up, here‘s a basic outline of what ‘terrible poetry’ means. Ready? Great!

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Topic: Plot twists. Lament about how often stories have them, include a few in your poem, or pull a fast one on us and keep the poem going exactly where we expect.
  2. Length: Since this is Bruce’s first time, let’s be nice to him and keep the word count under 200.
  3. Rhyme? Your call. Have fun with it!
  4. As the #1 rule listed at #4, make it terrible. I want Bruce himself, master of the macabre story twist, to shake his head in disbelief and secretly envy the part of the twisting Roman gutters in which your mind lies.
  5. Rating? For general audiences, keep things PG-13 or cleaner. Bleep it out if you really need to release a torrent.

****NOTE**** The due date is slightly earlier, so I can get Bruce the list of entrants.

You have till 11:59 p.m. MST next Thursday (August 15) to submit a poem.

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

For a more social experience and to ensure we receive it, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Have fun!

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Photo credit:
Pawel Janiak

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Another week, another round of great entries! You all free versed enough to set iridescent butterflies wafting round a blushing summertime rosebush.

Yet, there can only be one winner. And that is:

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

latitude and longitude, dormant darkness
of desserts concaved with sand. frosted
waves pounding cliff faces rugged
as gulls mournfully cry their solemn
lament. giants rustle leaves in hollow
reproach, as winter exhales. in a basement
a cheerless rodent sneezes, a whirlwind of
dust. below grim encrusted tunnels feet
scamper, fleeing the angry beast, who bellows
its angst in short blasts three. The umpire shouts TIME.

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

All the entries this week were fantastic! Deb’s poem won for how well she took traditional free verse and destroyed it. The icing on the cake was her “a cheerless rodent sneezes.” Well done!

If you thought hers was terrible, see if you can get through the rest:

Sugar cubed

by Bruce Goodman

You are the teaspoon that stirs sweet sugar in my cup of tea;
imagine how yucky the tea would be without you
to stir the saccharine cubes in the beverage for me to drink.

That is why you are my honey-bee hovering near my cup and saucer,
my stirring implement that is wild and free
and goeth round and around all syrupy with glee and delight.

My teaspoon! My teaspoon! from A to Z*!
(*pronounced ZED because we’re not allowed to rhyme this week)
Every time I come back from having a pee
there’s always a further five or six sugared hot cups of tea waiting to be imbibed.

Thank you for being my sugar cube agitator, adorable Constantia.
When I see you dissolve sugar I dissolve into a sticky mess.
Will you take time out from stirring my sugar cubes to marry me?

—–

Hola

by Peregrine Arc

Goldfish, mirrors of angelic happenings
Twittering ’round my pâté
and never I did I want to become a bat.
A florid, Florida bat with a floral dress
Flowery, shimmer, summery.
Striking Cover Girl poses at a laundromat recycling bin.
But alas here I am, at a restaurant poking a salad at a beach
80 years old, playing Bingo with Uncle Mingo
A flowery, fruity, in more ways than sooth
Ol’ bat.
Cha, Cha, cha. Ole!

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

In our darkest times you bring unbroken sunshine
With a bouquet unrivalled amongst the finest wine
Like a fragrant flower sat below the finest red pine
How can something so small be so life enriching
Your smell, your taste so utterly bewitching
Just one drop is so completely uplifting
You shine out on our world like the stars of the southern cross
You are as wondrous and spectacular as the wandering albatross
You paint the world with a sparking diamond jewel embossed gloss
In the kitchen you are the unrivalled boss
Riding across the sky like the ancient god Helios
You are our light oh Great Tabasco Sauce

—–

Ode to Doublemint

by Ruth Scribbles

Elixir of arousal
Enticing my buds to
Long for the burst of delightful
Flavor
My orifice masticates
Releasing angst and queasiness
You are fettered for my sustenance
My perseverance in chasing you
Is made worthwhile

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Ah, fast and furious
Flicking around
You scurry to and fro
Like a drunken apricot
Charlie Chaplin on speed
Multiplied by two
On your long thin legs
So gloriously gorgeous
That you have six
For how can but two do
Or even Charlie’s three
Including his cane
For his cane is part of him
Isn’t it
But you have six
Naturally
And you don’t have a mustache
But the mandibles
So roundly curvaceous
Sweeping, sexy mandibles
And antennas
Or is it antennae
Let me look closer
With this magnificent magnifying glass
Shape, clear crystal for seeing
Ooops
I didn’t mean to
Burn you up
Sorry ant

—–

Thanks to everyone for poeming! If he’s game, I’m thinking of having a guest judge. We’ll see how that goes. Regardless, come back at 10 a.m. tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

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

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

May I be the first sentence to welcome you to the 37th Terrible Poetry Contest? Excellent.

You may think writing horrendous verse is difficult. It’s not; people do it all the time! Just in case you’re nervous, however, I’ve written up a brief description here. Read it, or pick a random poem from the internet and alter it to fit the prompt.

-Which may be found in the specifics below:

  1. Our Topic is Anything. You choose.
    The catch? Whatever subject you select has to be way too flowery and/or descriptive. Adjectives and adverbs are your new best friends, closely followed by metaphor, simile, hyperbole, synecdoche, and personification.
    The other catch? The type of poem is free verse.
  2. Length? For the judge’s time and sanity, keep things under 250 words.
  3. For the first time, you may NOT Rhyme! What could be more poetic than free verse? Most people think that’s true and who are we to add rhyme to their meter?
  4. As always, make it terrible. Poets who take themselves way too seriously must applaud your efforts, worried to be the first to point out the emperor has no prose.
  5. Although a bawdy free verse poem is likely to exist somewhere, most stay around PG or cleaner; you can as well.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (August 9) to submit a poem.

Use the form below to be anonymous for a week.

For a more social experience, and to guarantee I see your entry, include your poem or a link to it in the comments.

Please enter and please have fun!

 

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Photo credit:
Unsplash

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

The results of this contest are going to be delayed every time; until my children start free, public babysitting at the end of this month. Sorry.

I won’t make you wait any longer. This week’s winner is:

Darling Maisie

by Bruce Goodman

I can’t say I’m that crazy
About Maisie
And when I’ve had a few things get a bit hazy
Anyway, before very long she’ll hopefully be pushing up a daisy
Or two.

Almost inevitably she has to be regarded
As a favourite relative and not discarded
Because if I say otherwise I’ll get bombarded
And cursed and I can ill afford to be unguarded
In the matter.

There’s very little in Maisie’s life that I approve
But she’s fabulously rich and my lot is likely to get improved
Thus I’m feeling behoved
To love her and hope she dies soon, overfed and boozed;
My darling third cousin twice removed!

Congratulations, Daisy -I mean, Bruce! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

I really had difficulty narrowing things down. I think everyone did well at mis-matching meter, misspelling or misusing words, and tweaking rhyming patterns where they ought not to be tweaked. Bruce’s entry won by merit of it sounding the worst when I read them all aloud. Vocalizing helped me catch the true spirit of his terrible meter, and dub him the most terrible poet of them all (this week).

Good work to everyone! Here are the runners-up:

A Tribute to my once favourite brother

by Deb Whittam

We were brothers (political license here)
Who challenged the stars to duels
With the words we wrote.

We were comrades (more political license)
Who downed Guinness, ok perhaps not Guinness but its … political license …
As we coloured the sunset with our crayons.

We were amigos (Like the three amigos but my chest is hairier.)
Who took the wrong turn, not that I was navigating, hey Charles,
Then built mountains for astronauts to scale.

We were all we needed, just us, you know, you and me, two is better than one, ain’t it grand to be a duo and not in a band,
Who composed melodies that sent
Wayward angels into raptures of delight.

We were all of this and then,
My brother over the seas (Ok not technically my brother but political license and all that jazz)
You had the gall to beat me and now you are just a stop sign I will tear down and stomp on while pretending it’s your head.

—–

Auntie M

by Ruth Scribbles

Bless her heart
She’s just old
And loves to scold

Surveying the kingdom
Nothing is pleasant
No good words spoken
Especially about peasants

Leaves are trash
Unmade beds are a mess
Perfection is the name of the game
Otherwise out of the will
You’ll be unnamed

I fear she will live forever
And ever and ever
The one thing she didn’t perfect
Was how to undo the defect
Of living so long

And so goes my song
Oh my darling Auntie M
You are loved
With all your foibles
Oh my darling Auntie M

—–

Untitled piece

by Kytwright

My gran’s budgie ate Trill, he chewed up the seeds with a will,

He was imaginatively called Budgie Boy,

a mirror with a bell was his favorite toy,

which seemed to give him joy.

But when you opened the cage door,

he’d fly out and mess on the floor.

Then gran to no avail,

would try to coax him from the curtain rail,

my grandma’s budgie, who ate Trill.

—–

The Bongo Bingo Poet Beat

by Peregrine Arc

Oh! My dear old Uncle Mingo
How he loved playing his Bingo.
Russian Roulette in retirement with all his savings
Soon became his weekly misbehaving.

One fine day he died and was broke;
His lawyer gathered us around the table at the woke
“Nothing’s left, nothing at all;
And you owe me $3500 for telling you all.”

And now Uncle Mingo’s dead, it’s true;
I’m at his funeral, dressed in blue.
And when we turned from the grave
“Bingo!” was heard, shouted out by the knave.

—–

Uncle Fred and the Things He Ded

by Charles

From when I was young, ‘til when I’m dead
I’ll always remember Uncle Fred
When I was just a fresh-faced kid
He told me all the things he did
He climbed all mountains and fought all wars
He visited every nation’s shores
He had several PhDs
All attained with relative ease
He said he could do most anything
And even taught a pig to sing
My esteem for the man could not be higher
A brilliant man and accomplished liar

—–

Thanks for playing!! Come back in about 12 hours for next week’s prompt.

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

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Welcome to Terrible Poetry Contest #36!

Need a bit of guidance? Read my basic outline here. This is the sort of contest only undertaken by the satirical at heart, by the artists who know that starving is a silly way to be.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Topic: A tribute to your ‘favorite’ relative. We all have them: that maternal aunt who means well, that grandfather who keeps asking when you’re going to make something of yourself, that sister who’s so successful you just want to bless her heart.
  2. Length is totally up to you, but I prefer short. Grandma probably does too, Dearie.
  3. Rhyming is optional. You do what feels right to you, like that time you were with what’s-his-face -remember? That didn’t end well, now did it? -Of course, your relationships usually don’t turn out for the best. I was just telling your mother, the other day, that…
  4. Speaking of, I’m sure your mother would have something to tell her bridge club if you made it terrible. We wouldn’t want yet another Christmas where I only have your collection of Star Wars toys to share in the family newsletter, now would we?
  5. Let’s not shock your relatives, unless cementing your status as a Black Sheep is your thing. PG-13 or classier is fine.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (August 2) 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.

Have fun!

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Photo credit:
Ashwin Vaswani

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

As is becoming a theme, the day’s nearly passed and I’ve finally had time to read through everyone’s entry.

Since I know you all skip to this part anyway, the winners are:

Lugubrious University

by Rasmus K. Robot

Darkness descends in the night of mourning
Glory be, I shall write sunrise in dew-mornings
Profundity in me is profuse
So for pomp I use
my lucubrations with candles at night for taunting

AND

The Nearer the Bone, the Sweeter the Meter

by Charles

There once was a poet named “Peter”
Who said, when set up with a nice wholesome intelligent and attractive girl who couldn’t have been any sweeter,
“I must write a poem
I have to rush home
and, then I’ll be pleased to meter”

Congratulations, Rasmus and Charles! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

Selecting a winner was very difficult. You all did very well; sometimes too well. Our two winners wrote terrible limericks that kept to the theme, enlisted some annoying poetic element (Rasmus: language, Charles: that second line), and were an overall disaster to read.

Here are the remaining talented poets and their submissions:

The poet from Wigan

by JWebster2

There was a young poet from Wigan
Whose muse was rather a big one
And what was worse
She couldn’t do verse
Just sat in the dark with her wig on

—–

Shakespeare’s Legacy

by Kristian

Shakespeare was incredibly clever

But he wrote terribly dull poems, however,

And when his day was done,

His poems still live on

Because they’ve been taught in our schools forever.

—–

Untitled piece

by Rasmus K. Robot

Heat is hot and I’m told not very cold
’tis known she’s got the pot and the gold
she’s got the hot dress on
that she’ll not long don
and befuddled and muddled a fortune foretold

—–

Untitled piece

by Peregrine Arc

There once was an old man named Stan
Who won the Poet Laureate, upper hand
He was celebrated all over, was featured in a Doodle;
He held five hour lectures in Tucson, Dover and Vancouver
And Google decided to replace his day with an Homage to Poodles.

🐩 Arf.

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

There was a gentleman called Charles,
Who posted posts which were kind of bizarre.
But when he failed to be terrible,
He complained and stated it would never do,
He was a failure but in reality he’d only tried too hard.

—–

That’s me

by John S

Bukowski, Rossetti, and Poe
All wrote good poetry, so
Drafting a page
Earned them a wage
Back when a writer could crow.

I write some verse nowadays,
No one knows me anyways
Posting on blogs,
I write and I slog,
My poetry sucks more than slays.

—–

In praise of Shakespeare making up words

by Bruce Goodman

There once was a poet from Stratford
Who regarded himself as absolutely confabulatfid
He wrote many a sonnet
And then said Oh! Donnit!
I didn’t mean to be so desderpolygnatfid.

—–

Avril’s Fool Deux

by Reality

There is a poet named reality

Who struggles with humanity’s finality

Whilst artsy fartsy, namby pamby,

Touchy feely, airy faery

According tutu (to two), and frivality.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

There once was a Boris who wanted to be a Poet
He thought he was better than us that’s why he only drunk Moët
He thought it was ok to lie, cheat and bluff it all the way to the top
He even had his hairstyled like his best friend Donald’s flop
Unbelievably one day he became a poet wouldn’t you ******** know it

As this is PG of course ********* means just. In no way does it mean effing.

—–

A Bunch of Jerks

by LWBUT

A doddering politician named Boris

Was desiring of very high office.

Where, with his junior jerks,

They’d acquire loads of perks,

While all the time ripping our wealth off us!

—–

LaPoettessa

by Ruth Scribbles

The poet she know’d it she showed it
She wrote it she spoke it she fidgets
Her lyrics they rhyme
Every blasted line
She renamed herself LaPoettessa

—–

Thanks again for all the fun! Visit here again around 10 a.m. MST tomorrow for the new theme.

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

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Good day, fellow poetmasters (or somesuch)! May I be the first to welcome you to Week 35 of the Terrible Poetry Contest?

If you’re seeking directions, read my how-to about terrible poetry. Specifically for this week, I also recommend reviewing limericks over at contest nine.

Because:

  1. The Topic is a limerick about poets who take themselves way too seriously.
  2. One limerick’s Length is five lines long; an anapaest meter. Double it up for ten, if you wish.
  3. Limericks rhyme …or, at least, they get really really close.
  4. The most important rule of thumb is to make it terrible! You need anarchist beatniks in coffee shops the world over to raise themselves from a backlit Apple, scowl over something besides the injustice of everything, and slowly sip their organic latte in pure distaste for what you have done.
  5. As usual, keep the rating PGish or kinder.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (July 26) to submit a poem.

Use the form below in order to be anonymous for a week.

If you want immediate internet attention and possible comments, however, include your poem or a link to it in the comments below.

I do not read entries until the deadline and always do so with names removed.

Have fun!

 

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Photo credit:
abi ismail

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

After a long day with a headache (thanks, human pregnancy), I’ve rock-paper-scissored a winner from my final choices.

And that winner is Peregrine Arc.

The Hallmark of Irony: An Elephant’s Tale

by Peregrine Arc

Here’s a card just for you
For 22 months, I’ve had spew
All over the savannah after every meal
Two hundred pounds sitting on my bladder for almost two years
Growing by the day and your father asks me
Dearest pachyderm-a-booble, whatsoever’s the matter, my dear little poodle?
Chin up, dear lady, this won’t last forever.
The labour pains will only last two nights, no matter.

So dearest child when you’re born,
If you ever wonder why your father walks with a limp–
It’s because I sat on him
To make him suffer for being a nitwit.

Congratulations, Madame Arc! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

Almost all of the entries went above and beyond the criteria: horrible, educational, interesting, and painful to read. P’Arc’s contribution did all that, plus garnered the promised bonus points for trying to make hers more like a Hallmark card. Maybe it’s my current pregnancy speaking, but I especially appreciated the elephant daddy getting a bit of payback in the end.

Meanwhile, National Geographic may want to get in touch with the other fabulous poets:

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Pregnancy is wearing,
As I’m sure you know,
But not if you’re a Surinam toad,
For guess where their babes grow.
If you said on their back,
You would be halfway right.
If you said the male digs holes
To stash the eggs in you’ve seen the light.
In a 12 hour mating ritual,
He buries those babes deep,
Then the skin grows back,
It’s enough to give me the creeps.
Four and a half months later,
The babes emerge,
Momma Surinam toad must sure shriek,
And lament her maternal urge.

—–

A Tale of Two Widows

by Mathew S

Two arachnids met eyes across a room
All eight pairs of eyes made contact in fact
That bulbous rump had made males swoon
Those long legs called out for contact

Mmmm mmmmm yum yum yum
He thought, what a night of ecstasy
We sure will get us much of some
They lay there tangled plain to see

Dreaming up their spider plans
They spoke to make a web for both of thee
He was arachnid putty in her hands
She hissed, “you’ll always be a part of me”

He thought he knew just what she meant
Like newly webs, not you or I, but we!
After sticky reproduction, hungry and so spent,
He attempted to leave the web sheepishly

But was asked to stay for dinner
To which he agreed, but feels remorse
Since he’s digesting in her innards
As her web-of-lies main course

—–

The lamentation of a girl guppy

by Bruce Goodman

Because you’re the male you’re smaller than me
And that’s because I’m a female guppy.
I don’t lay eggs, I’m a live-bearer,
And I don’t believe I could possibly say that any clearer.

Well you might laugh at my girth,
But that’s because I haven’t as yet given birth
I’m a good couple of months old
And when you were seven weeks old I wish you hadn’t been so bold.

Even when expecting, females prefer new males prettier than hubby
And frequently change who the father is going to be of their bubby.
Basically we guppies are the epitome of immortality
And that’s what happens when one practises polyandry.

So to sum up, if I see a boy guppy who’s dashing
I get quite overcome with passion.
But I ask you, do you think it is fair
That I’m already into my fifth pregnancy this year?

—–

From Here Two Maternity

by LWBUT

If you are lying in bed postprandially wondering

what you can Google here’s an example i’ve been pondering –

The female kangaroo of Australia

has quite the most remarkable genitalia.

Although it is a mammal, whose species mostly possess a single uterus,

the kangaroo has developed a reproductive system that is really quite new to us,

in that she has evolved double our number of internal cavities

in which to incubate the future prospective progeny of her species.

In two uteri her eggs can be fertilised in parallel, growing two joeys at a time

And what is an even greater puzzle, going from the ridiculous to the sublime,

is that though she exceeds the number of egg-hatching chambers by one over us

her vaginas exceed even that by a half again of the surprising number of uterus

making a final tally, some might find a tad hard to believe,

of kangaroo uteri: two, while kangaroo vaginas are in total, three!

While to some this may cause a concern at the possibility of colliding despatches

Our kangaroo has yet another surprise in the way that her offspring hatches;

the kangaroo has the unique ability to suspend one of her two embryo ‘in situ’

While the other makes good his escape before deciding what he is to do,

to go outside and crawl up to the pouch, if i’m not mistaken?

or crawl back up inside and hope his room has not yet been taken.

While from egg to escaping the womb will take a little joey about a month or more

the young ‘roo will remain in mum’s pouch for another eight, by which time she’s sure to be sore.

Once her young joey has been thus evicted

mum’s familial duties are no less restricted

She will continue to raise him, teaching him how to fend

for himself until his sibling brings her patience to an end.

So with two uteri, a female kangaroo in her maternity

can seemingly be pregnant from here to eternity.

—–

Self Satisfaction–Oh to be like thee, Komodo the Lizard

by Ruth Scribbles

Parthenogenesis
Genesis, the beginning
Beginning of self-impregnating
Impregnating self
Self reliance
Reliance on moi
Moi and tu
Tu, no not you
Me and only me
Self satisfaction
Or
Self destruction
Destruction of needing
Needing anyone
Anyone will do?
No only you
Oops.. just kidding
I want to procreate
Like the dragon of komodo
Now, that’s self satisfying!

—–

You Need a New Mom

by Angela Duggins

All through the night, in my dreams,
I hear you. I feel you.
deciding that you want to be born.
You will grow up someday.
I’ll push you out some way.
Now is time to break through my pores.

You’re here. My death I now fear.
I believe that you need a new mom.
Please stay. Your birth is my decay,
and I know that you need a new mom.

Keep moving on.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

When the Giraffe gives birth the baby falls to the ground
But luckily the calves are not hurt they seem to rebound
Lucky female seahorses as the males are the ones who give birth
I wonder how that effects the dads and their much prized girth
A chipmunk can give birth every forty five days
That’s enough to make Alvin stop singing and go into a daze
Opossums are quick they only gestate for fourteen days
Pressure on the males as it’s an even quicker menstrual phase
Humans are so much slower yet no less Herculean
That all makes the our pregnancy rather antediluvian

—–

Thank you so much for putting me through this misery! Tune in tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for the announcement of next week’s contest.

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

The Strangest Pregnant Animal Ever, a poem

From curly hair to larger feet
And drooling, dozing, sniffling snores;

From skin tags, spots, and extra heat
And sudden change to teenage pores;

From stomach smashed and bladder squished
And nausea any time awake;

From snacks on which one must subsist
And baths that one must never take;

From ever-spreading stretch mark lines
And complications ev’ry term;

From husband flirts one must decline…

 

You wish you’d never seen That Sperm!