WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Millions have gathered today to hear The Answer to who the wrote the most terrible poem in the galaxy; and, believe me, it was worth the seven and a half million year wait.

After much Deep Thought, I must conclude the winners to be:

Celebrate your body

by Joem18b

Celebrate your body every morning
Wet it then dry it ever so slowly
Begin with your hair or if you are bald your pate
Dry your neck wattles lovingly
Dry your front and back
Dry your loins with a sawing motion
If you are limber enough dry your legs
Do not attempt to dry your feet you could fall over and break a hip
Use a new towel every day or the same towel every day no exceptions
Towel should be heavy no less than 1,000 GSM (grams per square meter)
Should have densely woven loops of 3-ply yarns for strength and durability
Luxurious, spa-like warm and cozy experience is essential
100% Egyptian cotton or for political reasons Tibetan cotton
Must absorb. Pile must drift like cloud over your corpus
Never hang on a hook
Never allow bleach, cleaning agents or acne salicylic acid treatments near it
Must remain plush after laundering. How to wash a towel is cleaning 101 especially if mildew is common where you live (vinegar and baking soda)
Optional classic piqué border
Never wrap around your body! it is not a dress or suit!
Must be certified by TexSufi, globally trusted and recognized testing system for ecologically safe textiles
Never use on a pet. (Small, jewel-like birds excepted)
Your towel is your friend, your companion, your lover
On second thought, also celebrate your body every evening

AND

Untitled piece

by Tiredhamster

Chapter One:

My life can be seen
In the laundry basket over there, tossed
Like a forgotten banana peel on a hot
Summer morning, sad and lonely
and brown, getting real dry
with a bad
Odor that makes everyone
sad

Chapter Two:

I look closer and see an old used
towel, dry, yet moist, begging
to be used,
but it has already been used, and
is too old and foul, maybe
i should toss it
into the trash, but i won’t because
It is my towel, the only one
i have and
No one can take it, not even
The government or
My ex-wife.

Chapter three:

I was wrong,
all the used
Towels had to go,
Said the president, so i
Mailed my old towel
To the government
Like a good
american
Now i am
Left hear, with an
Empty laundry basket
And my skin
Dripping
Making the floor wet
Forever.

—–

Congratulations, Joem and Hamster! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

“Celebrate your body” was just plain awful. It read like a towel’s instruction label, but worse -especially considering its hints at still being a poem.
Tiredhamster’s piece was just as bad but in a different way: its form and meter speak of free verse. Its message, not so much.

Almost all of the poems were terrible enough to make a Vogon cry -if, perhaps, a Vogon possessed compassion or tear glands. Although what was left of our judges could not award first place to all, they certainly came close enough to warrant a few limbs-gnawing-off recitations.

See for yourself, if you have the sanity:

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Snap …
Right buttock burns
Crack …
Broken china on the floor
Yip …
Drip … drip … drip
Hung on line to
Dry
Fluffiness restored

Ahhhhhhhhhhh

—–

Good morning

by Bruce Goodman

Now that I’m old and extremely fat
I find the towel too small to wrap
around my waist after a shower.
To get fresh clothes, I don’t know how
I’m going to get to my tallboys
where I keep my clean corduroys.
So I waddle towel-less along the corridor
and, fearless as a matador,
march through the dining room to get to my bedroom.
Some of the 46 other hostel inhabitants start to swoon
because my towel-less-ness is quite surreal,
and they are put off from eating their breakfast cereal.
A larger towel would cover many sins
and save the visiting old ladies from having to drink too many gins.

—–

Towel Be Soft or Not Towel Be Soft, That is the Question

by Babbitman

Wet hands, wet face
Reaching out into space
Clawing, grasping
For my towel in its place
On the towel rail.

Don’t panic! I have it!
Water drips from my nose
Onto the carpet
While I fumble to bring it
(the towel)
To my moistened visage
And rub.

But what is this?
The water on my face
Is simply moved around.
No absorption, no drying
I feel like I’m dying
Even though I’m trying
Really quite hard.

It’s unusually soft
And smells of artificial flowers.
Damn!
It’s been treated with
Fabric conditioner.
Sad Nick. Petitioner:
“Please stop making my towels soft”

I look in the mirror
And sigh, “damn!” again
For ’tis a new towel
And my face is cover’d
In fluff.
I wash my face again.
And sob, tears lost
Amongst a bit more water
From the tap.

I’m trapped
In a vicious circle
How many times will I have
To go round?
Probably 42.

—–

Towels Slewot

by Peregrine Arc

Crisp, white, pinstriped
Mashed as mashed potatoes white.
Down it goes, down I say
To cover the floor, to cover the hay.
Beach, shower, hand, tip
All types we have, all types we mint.
But did I ever say to you
Your hair is as bleached and spotted as the ones on this by torn up rag?
My dear, my love, that is enough;
Let’s “towel” it a day.

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

My friend stayed at a Trump Hotel and pinched one of the towels
When the President finds out he will give him one of those scowls
On the Vice Presidents visit to Ireland he stayed at another Trump Hotel
I wonder if he had a towel in his bag when he bid the hotel farewell
Now the army has to bunk at Trumps Golf Resort in Scotland
Hundreds of fluffy white ones will go missing as mistakes are not learned
Poor Donald looses so many towels I hope he has a good supplier
Probably from China but he won’t know as he is such a crap buyer
And I wonder as Trump played golf while Hurricane Dorian continued to magnify
What was he thinking as he dried his grip with one of the finest towels money can buy

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Whirling and twisting
Around and thru
Up and down
Round and Round
Swishing splashing

Mind in the gutter??

— the —

Kids playing in the rain
Time to wrap them
In towels
Dry
Them
Off

Towels in washer

Whirling and twisting
Around and thru
Up and down
Round and Round
Swishing splashing

—–

Towel, towel every place

by M.R. Kessell

There’s fresh towels in the hall closet
And one draped upon my bedroom door
Dish towels in on the kitchen counter
And that one mysteriously draped, languidly, longingly on the living room floor

There’s a wholly ratty towel for the doggy
And then, suddenly, in the dining room hutch
All those fancy, decorative towels and such
That I’m am forbidden to
handle

There’s Emergency towels in the cars
And ginormously big towels for the beach
But as I step from the shower freezingly
Not a single one’s within reach

—–

You’ve Really Got To Know Where Your Towel Is

by Joanne Fisher

I use my towel for everything –

I dry myself with it, or wipe dirt off

sometimes I wear it as a short dress,

an improvised hat, or use it as a blanket

I even like to take it to sports events and

twirl it above my head in excitement

people say my towel is dirty, that it smells

but you don’t wash towels

do you?

when it gets damp I dry it outside

and then I wrap it around my head

Actually, they’re right

it does stink.

—–

Been There, Eaten That

by Charles masercot

At midnight my stomach started to growl
Too groggy to think, I ate a dish towel

It tasted like an apple garbage pizza, deep fried
(a combination from every dish I’d dried)

My hunger is satisfied, I think
But, I really am craving something to drink

And, even though I’m about to burst
After a gallon of water, I still might die of thirst…

To all of those kids eating dish towels for thrills
Remember that super-absorbency kills!

—–

Just dripping

by Richmond Road

Not trying to be rude
Just nude
Not skinny-dipping
Just dripping
On the bathroom floor
You are here no more
To adore
And complete the chore
Of washing
Hence leave me sloshing
About
As I shout
Of sorrow
Until tomorrow
Again to howl
Where’s my towel?

—–

Now; you may either die in the recesses of space, or tell everyone what you thought of their poems. …or, just come back tomorrow to enter next week’s contest.

FilmVogonPoetry

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

So sorry for the delay in this announcement. The judge had a busy day and a headache-d night.

At long last you may know that the winner is:

Woe is everyone

by Deb Whittam

Long have the halls been silent,
The chairs empty, the locker doors thrown open.
Long have the weeds grown,
Unchecked, through the days of winter, cold and dull.
Long has the toilets been clean,
The stains and smears of adolescence finally washed away.
Peace has reigned.
As the bell sounds for the first time,
The rodents, the cleaners, the teachers,
Grimace their despair.
School’s back.
So sad.

—–

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

Many poets’ works made me grimace today, but Deb’s stood out. She made me believe I was reading a serious poem, then artfully threw the meter off course whilst adding elements like rodents and “smears of adolescence” in there.

But the terrible poetry doesn’t stop there! Read the others, if you are able:

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Teacher, teacher,
Be aware
I just dropped my pencil
Under there
Ha!
I made the teacher
Say “Underwear”!
Principle, Principle
Don’t be blue
I know I took advantage
Of the teacher who’s new
Darn!
He sent my butt home
For my mother to chew
Mother, Mother
Don’t be mad
Only nine months to summer
Then we’ll be glad
Huh!
What’s she mean
It won’t be the worst nine months
She ever had….

—–

SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!

by Bruce Goodman

Hello Everyone! Welcome back to school!
Murray, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Paula, I hope your summer time was cool!
Wayne, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Shirley, you’re acting like a fool.
Frank, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
William, you’re full of bull.
Jeanette, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Winifred, no you can’t; it’s against the rule.
Neil, SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Oh for goodness sake! I can’t wait for the Christmas break when we celebrate Yule.
EVERYONE! SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!
Let’s see who does the bester
In this first semester.
YOU’RE HERE TO LEARN SO SIDDOWN N SHUDDUP!

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

Is it really back to school
In that uniform so uncool
Yep
Do I have to Combe my hair
I’m not allowed to rock in my chair
Yep
Come again, I have to get up at Half past Six
Then get on the school bus with the other lunatics
Yep
Have to eat a healthy school lunch
And in the class I’m not allowed to munch
Yep
I have to learn my nine times tables
And I need to write my name on all the coat labels
Yep
I’m not allowed to pick my nose
While having to write boring prose
Yep
Not allowed to play games of my mobile phone
And if the teacher shouts I’m not allowed to moan
Yep
Must not run and play along the school corridors
And no pulling funny faces at the other choristers
Yep
When I ask a question I must raise my hand
Even when in Latin it’s impossible to understand
Yep
I have to fully button up my school shirt
Always keep the blazer on to hide all the dirt
Yep
Not supposed to throw objects at the head-boy
Be nice to your classmates and certainly don’t annoy
Yep
On no grounds can I fight or swear
Don’t attack the other kids with the set square
Yep
Need to pick my feet up so no scrapping only the floorboards
And certainly I’m not supposed to do rude doodles on the blackboards
Yep
I HATE SCHOOL……

—–

Back to school

by Ruth Scribbles

“Why oh why?”

The children cry

“Yipee Skippy!”

The parents are trippin’

“Kids are goin’ back to school!”

School daze begin again

Hallelujah! Amen!!

Wait!

What?

You need clean clothes

And play clothes TOO!

paper and pencils

And have to work at home too??

OH! NO!!!

BACK to school BLUES!!

—–

Going Back

by Joem18b

my dad was on parole
which was a rigamarole

then he goofed up
but then he fessed up

and back he went to the Big House
quiet as a mouse

i know how he felt, it was a bummer
like with me at the end of each summer

—–

The Fall

by LWBUT

The Summer joys shelv’d

like books to a library.

Autumn faces droop.

—–

Thank you to everyone for playing. Come back tomorrow for next week’s contest!!

kids-1093758_1920

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

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.

hamlet-62850_1920

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Wow. I’m not certain I want to go on vacation after reading this week’s batch of terrible poetry. From ‘wish you were(n’t) here’ to ‘wish I’d vacationed alone’ to …sheep? the poems this time around truly delivered.

But we’re not only here to lament our wasted work leave. We’re here to pick a winner, and that is:

Untitled piece

by Gary

Arrived in Pluto just 459 years late.
You wouldn’t believe what they are charging on the exchange rate
Can’t open the hotel windows as the air tends to dissipate
Can eat what I want as the low gravity gives me little weight
The beaches are empty so it feels a little desolate
The trip round the 5 moons was first rate
The nightlife is great at the disco you should see the locals gyrate
Tomorrow off to one of the poles to ice skate.

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

Competition was stiff between 2-3 at the end. Gary’s won for its wonderful every-line-rhyming, mostly. I also appreciated his consistent mis-meter, topped by an interesting message that was on topic.

Do you think you’d like to receive a postcard bearing any of the following?:

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Just writing from my.
Little bit of paradise.
Just taking some.
Time for a note.
Just saying that.
Vacation is going.
Well.
Just need to let you know.
That I will be out.
Of the hospital.
Soon.

—–

Greetings from Bermuda

by Peregrine Arc

I finally made it to Bermuda, my dear little one.
Everyone has shorts and triangles for sale, it’s odd.
I should be back next Tuesday, make sure you feed the cat.
The plane just needs to get us out of this isoceles, stat.

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Mary packed her bags
Mary had had enough
Damn the little lost sheep
They could cut their own fluff
She was going abroad
To sunshine and wine
She was going abroad
She was going to have a swell time
All was going well
But then the hotel demanded payment
Mary huffed and puffed
She was being treated like a vagrant
Mary decided to take a stand
There was more than one way to call a bluff
She went to the local zoo
To find the right stuff
Filling her room with creatures
She dared them to remove her now
Mary landed herself in jail
Damn those damn sheep
They were all going to hell

—–

A postcard to the wife

by Bruce Goodman

I wanted a hassle-free vacation
so that’s why I’m not telling you my location.
I don’t care if you’re alone;
I’m glad I left you at home.
I don’t miss you constantly talking garbage,
although I do miss having you here to carry my luggage.
When I get back home next Friday
I hope the house is nice and tidy.
So aloha from some hidden beach
that hopefully you won’t be able to reach.

—–

Vacation Limerick

by Riley4892

My family went away on vacay,
And the sun shone most every day.
Until there was rain,
It drove us insane,
And now we stay inside to play.

—–

Déjà vu

by Joanne the Geek

It’s like I’ve been here before
all the beaches I’m at, all seem the same
they all have sand and rocks and water
and bathers slowly roasting themselves in the sun
and then there are the hotels –
all offering services and rooms that all
look the same no matter where you go
and all the people are the same too
I’m not actually saying they are literally all the same people
but that they are all the same types of people, that’s
what I’m getting at
I don’t mean to sound neurotic
but sometimes I wonder if I’m in a simulation

—–

A Postcard from Finland

by Shaun Jex

Hello Dear –
I fear
You would not like it here
Helsinki
Is way way way too stinky
This time of year
But I guess it’s good to know
No matter how far and wide I roam
There is always a little something
That reminds me of our home.

—–

My Summer Vacation

by Ruth Scribbles

Various

Anxious

Catastrophic

Antics

Tempted

Indecent

Outlandish

Nonsense

On my summer vacation

A best staycation ever

The jealousy abounded

And I was hounded

Indecently

For my details

V

….A

……..C

…………A

…………….T

………………..I

……………………O

………………………..Ns

—–

Thank you to all the wonderful/terrible poets! Come on by tomorrow around 10 a.m. for next week’s prompt.

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

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:

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.

ashwin-vaswani-1CoyeOsvqG4-unsplash (1)

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

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:

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:

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

The managerial staff for this contest would like to apologize for the severe delay in posting.

So no more suspense. The winner is Bruce Goodman.

In dire need

by Bruce Goodman

Wendy wanted to make some dough
So she could go to the show
If she didn’t make it to the show you know
It would be the second year in a row.

Wendy stood at her front gate
With a notice, written on slate,
“I need to make dough!
I need to make dough!”

Wendy realized that it was a waste of time.
She might as well have gone to war and been on the front line.
Then a kind man came up, rather haughty
And said making dough was his forte.

“I’ll show you how to make dough,” he said.
Wendy though he was light in the head.
She said “I know how to make dough, but at the very least
I can’t make dough without yeast.”

The man said “What the hell!
I realize now you can’t spell.”
You don’t need dough,
You knead dough before taking it to the Bakers’ Show.

When that was sorted
Everyone danced and cavorted
They sang “Dough is what she kneads!
Dough is what she kneads!
Fa la la la la! Dough is what she kneads!”

Wendy’s chances increased
of winning the bread-making feast
once she got some yeast.

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

Bruce is no stranger to this contest, nor to winning it. It may be that he’s cracked the system on how to terribly poet and might consider writing stories with morbid endings instead…

As to the reasons for my picking: I read through the poems several times. Most made me laugh, almost all hurt to read, and almost all were cleverly penned. I appreciated the puns and subtle references. Bruce’s contribution won by a hair; incorporating confusion, mis-meter, a few too many rhymes, and a blundering sort of story in process.

I nearly chose several of these, and they are more than worth the read:

Take a Bow, Entropy

by Peregrine Arc

Hey here, look at me
The name is Entropy
I’m the flibber-gee-wibbit, the whoosit, the what’s it
That wears, corrodes, splinters, breaks, splits and frays all the things you own, from your patience to your very home.

I’m the thing that makes your pipes leak right before company is due.
I’m the squeaky wheel during a bike ride that echoes in the light of the moon.
I’m the rust that erodes at your swing
I’m the darling who ruins and breaks everything.
Even a no risk home owners insurance policy.

But for a fee? Never I.
But it’s my living just the same.
I collect your bad tempers, harsh words and examine your scowls
And then I make merry while the whole deck of cards comes tumbling down.

I’m havoc, I’m free, I’m powerful, I’m me.
I’m Entropy and I keep the flow of the economy, hee hee.
Free trade, capitalism, the green buck, oh oui
I’m kept in the front pocket of every crook who wants to make money. 💰

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

He wasn’t profiteering,
Nor being a freak,
He’d learnt that those things
Often didn’t come cheap.
Not cheap like a chicken,
Eggs were so blasé,
Nor like green eggs and ham,
He wasn’t hungry today.
Ideas once come,
Have their way,
Of being beneficial to those,
Who seized the day,
And it beat walking the streets,
Being a cop sure didn’t pay today,
Or being a lawyer, politician, teacher, tax collector, prostitute, drug dealer, c’mon you get my drift by now …
Those were all so au feu
No he got the idea,
From one of those reality shows
And it sure had paid,
Today he was a millionaire,
Selling ear wax from corpse was having its day.

—–

Blood Money

by Joanne the Geek

When I yet again start running out of money
To the blood bank I go to sell off my red honey
It’s a rare type so they’re always in need of some
If only I could produce more I wouldn’t have to be a bum

I even offered to sell my mucus dripping out of my nose
Or the copious earwax or what I find between my toes
Or any other of my bodily secretions I would quite happily sell
But they weren’t so interested in those as far as I could tell

—–

Untitled piece

by Nitin

I had fun today
It’s the month of May
I slept on a cot
I ate a lot
I listened to Sir Lancelot
I broke a pot
I’m in love
I have a glove
I like my rat
I play cricket with a bat
I have a ball
I am small
I like you
You like me too
I am good
I like food
I ate sweets
And meats
I drank wine
The sun shine
Oh yeah oh yeah
Oh yeah oh yeah

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Knee deep in the marsh
Still as a stump
Hear the trill of a Warbler
Imagine it is plump
Got the special quill
At the ready
Ready to aim
Hands held steady
Several in the bush
Most likely two
I get one in hand
Sure that it will do
Paint brush held tight
Microscope-like specs
Without a quiver
I write the tiny text
I let the little birdy go
It will fly away soon
And act like nothing’s wrong
Whistling it’s tune
But some birder will see
Written on it’s belly
An ad for the store
Where they sell raspberry jelly
And other delights
You can’t live without
All are guaranteed
To put a smile on your snout
You see I make my living
By writing words
Tiny advertisements
On the bellies of birds

—–

Breech

by Violet Lentz

Hiram slipped his elbow
then his forearm
then his wrist
from the swollen vulva
of the poor heifer
whose calf he’d had to twist
to get it to emerge all aglow-
first the legs, and then the torso.

“Delivering poorly
presented calves
can be some tedious work.”
Hiram stated
as he brought the calf
with one final tug n’ jerk,
“It’s a stress on the calf- and brother-
a right pain in the ars for the mother.”

“T’isn’t exactly painless
for a poor farmer
either, now don’t ya see
I’ll have to sell
off this wee little calf
if I’m ta cover yer fee.”
Farmer Ed countered, and so it began-
the necessary haggle-an…

—–

A Truly Terrible Rhyme 😉

by Tales from the Mind of Kristian

I’m told I often come across orgulous

Like a diamond-encrusted nautilus,

But I can’t bring myself to mix

With the great unwashed in the stix

So, in order to make some money

I do something jolly and funny.

I volunteer to look after cats,

And then keep tabs of everyone’s stats,

What type of shops they like to use,

All their secrets and their news,

Then sell the data for the highest price,

It all makes me feel rather nice.

Then I stride on down the street

In my golden tracksuit, rather neat.

By this simple data extraction

I live a life so full of action,

with a simple process activation

I’ve risen way above my station.

—–

Napkins for the Elderly

by jasonscottbrendel

I like to take napkins
and sell them to the elderly
don’t laugh, it’s not funny
and I think I’m lovely
so don’t tell me otherwise
positive vibes only
have I mentioned my heartbreak
it smells like torn, blackened, rusty, threadbare, shabby, tattered, grey with a hint of dark brown and hue of purple,
steak
so yeah
I deserve better
and that’s why I sell napkins
to the elderly
so they know
no matter how low they go
or how slow they row
at least they’ll know
I took the time
to sell them something fine.

—–

To Sell One’s Soul

by Padre’s Ramblings

Selling a soul is a thing to see,

It’s not done in a lab-rat-ry,

But in online Vlogs and Reality TV,

For few brief moments of cash and “fame,”

You embarrass yourself,

And bring your family shame;

You bathe in slime, or sing out of key,

Do crazy stunts, or publicly pee,

All for endorsements – their granters fickle,

And your dreams of wealth are oft

Just a trickle.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bereaved Single Dad

Rupert likes to make shed loads of money.
Not bad for a lad who comes from a land which is so sunny
A man who set up his own news corporation
Who still had time to build a TV station
Making so much dosh he thinks he owns your nation
So how does our Rupert make his cash
Promoting fake stories with panache
Filling his TV channels with balderdash
Getting you to watch TV shows filled with advert trash
Rupert also likes to control the news
He wants you to sign up to this perverted views
Making sure his political buddies get friendly interviews
His opponents suffer as fake news spews

—–

Acosta=RumputiN=Epstein

by reality

Our king-kong sized terrible two has realized
an even more devious way to line the Trump
organized crime family’s pockets, he’s having
NASA do a trip to Mars in preparation for a
manned landing by some white guy who’ll also
be tasked to play golf on the moons too.
RumputiN will throw in a little histoire to
make the photos more appealing to his multi-
millionaire foreign dictator pals: “They’re
named after the Greek mythological twin
characters Phobos (panic/fear) and Deimos
(terror/dread) (The Donald’s domestic and
foreign policy, respectively), who went with
their father Ares into battle. Ares, god of
war, was known to the Romans as Mars. This
will up the price he can charge them for
renting out the Lincoln bedroom, cafknching,
being the united suck of assassins new motto.

His current fav tool of stealing tax dollas is
still doing genocide, classwar style against
Latinos. He ripped apart 7000 families to
gift overtime, doubletime, more hires, multi-
million dolla private detention center
contracts to republican manned anti-immigrant
Gov’t agencies + his lifelong criminal cronies.
These kids are caged, allowed little soap,
showers, running water, food, etc.. Similar
conditions to 40’s US internment camps. This
should be one of the articles of impeachment
against him. Dinos, like Nancy ‘Chamberlain’
Pelosi, can be scolded if impeachment doesn’t
go only forward, for if it’s not completed
in the House before the 2020 elections,
RumputiN/vlad-the-impaler may be re-installed
into the Blackhouse by the same conspiracy
that did it in 2016. Viva la evolucion.

—–

Money Grows on Trees

by Ruth Scribbles

Money does NOT grow on trees
It comes out of a wall,
Everyone agrees
So why should I work?

I’ll climb a tree
To jump the wall
Until I’m tall
Enough to teach the slot
Where the money comes out
Green, like snot

—–

Thank you for sharing your terrible talents! Thanks for returning to play and for those who visited for the first time this contest. Come on back tomorrow, all y’all, and try next week’s prompt as well.

sam-truong-dan--rF4kuvgHhU-unsplash

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

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

I may have to wash my eyes after reading these, but -WOW!- what a turnout of terrible poems! After much uncomfortable squirming, guilty laughter, and deliberation; I have chosen a victor.

Since I know you might be holding your breath, this week’s winners are Trent and Nakedinfiniverse.

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Little Willie took a swim
Thinking the piranhas wouldn’t eat him
Don’t you think he was awfully silly
To assume a fish didn’t like Willie?

AND

A Helping Hand

by Nakedinfiniverse

Poor Willie said
he wished he was dead.
I wished the same
so I took aim.

Congratulations, Trent and Jane! You are the most terrible poets of the week!

Although many, many entries were hilarious and/or disturbing; I specifically looked for those that captured the clever twist of the traditional Little Willie poem; those that flippantly versed of disaster whilst punning a punch line. Of the finalists, the two winners were my favorites.

Good work, everyone! Here are all of the poems:

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Stuck in tar Willie waved
To the steamroller on the road just paved
The driver blindly sat
As Willie was made real flat

—–

Willie?

by Bruce Goodman

The doctor’s no expert at circumcision
Yes or no, it’s quite a decision
To be or not to be
Willie Willie’s willie?

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

Little Willie went a swimmin’
While his friends watched on.
But the croc got hungry while he was chillin’
So they all applauded when he was gon

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Little Willie unveiled his parts
Thinking he was very smart
He was found at half past eight
Begging to enter the pearly gates

—–

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Little Willie killed the roach
Then took a ride in the yellow coach
At his funeral folks did say
Little Willie seized the day

—–

Water of Life

by Lwbut

Little Willie was no liar,
But Little Willie’s pants were on fire,
If only he had been close by a lake
I’d likely not now be at his wake.

—–

Untitled piece

by Peregrine Arc

Little Willie had a thought
To play his trumpet at six o’clock
The sun had started rising, his father fast asleep
And now Willie can play all he wants–six feet deep.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bruce Goodman

Gun
Fun
Sillie
Willie

—–

A Little Exaggeration

by Lwbut

Baron Boris casually enquired, just before beginning his dismemberments,
Of Little Willie in which fashion he desired to be held in remembrance.
“Preferably
by hyperbole!”

—–

Untitled piece

by Bereaved Single Dad

Little Willie caught an itchy infection

Tried to visit his Doctor for an inspection

Was told no free appointments in weeks

So Poor Willie he ended up with very red cheeks

—–

No Bull

by Masercot

Little Willie fought a bull

in Barcelona, Spain

His body gained a few more holes

when it hit him like a train.

—–

Dragon

by Nakedinfiniverse

If I described the beat of its wings descending to the ground,
the claws, the teeth, the flames that brought Willie down,
It would sound like a lie, even silly,
Alas, poor Willie.

—–

Who, Me?

by Nakedinfiniverse

I told him not to smoke your fags
and why would I dip his glad-rags
in paraffin? It wasn’t me, dad.
Can I have Willie’s iPad?

—–

Willie’s Mayo

by Nakedinfiniverse

Willie loved red, he dreamed of red
and all the thoughts inside his head
he drew on walls in crimson crayon
(He even mixed red in with the mayon-
Naise). While dripping red ink in a nearby well
he tripped, and heavily, in he fell.
As from the depths his corpse was raised,
Willie’s bloodied skull left his mother unfazed.
“I see he’s rejecting the red from his head
so it’s OK to chuck out his mayo,” she said.

—–

Playmates

by Valfish56

Little Willie was up to no good
Chased his sister through the wood
Tied you her to a tree, left her for dead
Played with his dinosaurs instead

—–

Smokin’

by Violet Lentz

‘Farmer Vincent’s Smoked Meats’ the billboard did proclaim.
“Where our smoking process, is our claim to fame!”
Little Willie, ever curious, set off one day to see
exactly what’s so special about Farmer Vincent’s recipe.
Little Willie never did discover Farmer Vincent’s smoking secret.
Farmer Vincent smoked him out. Then ground him into a tasty tid-bit!

—–

I hope you had just as much fun as I did writing, then reading where everyone went with the prompt. Go on home now, and get yourself back tomorrow around 10 a.m. for next week.

three-monkeys-1212621_1920

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