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.

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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:

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:

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Sorry to keep everyone in suspense all day. It’s been a busy week!

The winner this week is Bereaved Single Dad.

Untitled piece

by Bereaved Single Dad

The US wants to build a really big wall
It’s to keep bad folk out maybe like Darth Maul
Paris is a beautiful place full of Yellow Vests
A great city to visit especially if you like protests
Canada seemed to have a charismatic leader
Now he seems tainted to the lay reader
The UK is run by a bunch of useless buffoons
Soon to become no more than Trumps spittoon
Clearly we are being failed by our politicians
Yet our rodents have untapped political ambitions
They want to address Climate Change
Rodents want positive action not wasting time on the golf range
They are not happy with our leaders looking after the rich only
Rodents will favour the poor and make sure the rich feel very lonely
They see that nationalism has disastrous consequences
Rodents will build bridges not really big fences
Politicians like to feed on your souls
Rodents like to munch on your toilet rolls
The ruling elite need to tremble
As its time for the Gerbils to Assemble

Congratulations, Bereaved Single Dad! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

As with every week (but a few) so far, I had a difficult time picking just one favorite. I read all the entries three times in differing orders, tilted my head for differing angles, and even tried reading aloud in differing accents.* Bereaved’s poem won for rhyming terrible rhymes every line, referencing politicians and various rodents, and having a generally roundabout point that somewhat resolved (in theory, perhaps) by the end.

Overall, I thought it the best. The rest, of course, will be appointed to various cabinet positions:

This rat’s opinion on political policies

by Bruce Goodman

The Desert Fathers – those ancient monks –
spent years trying to debunk
the notion that in order not to sin
one must have an opinion about everythin’.

They spent years purifying their hearts from worldly gain
so on most things had no opin-ian.
These days it’s easier (people scoff)
but I simply turn the TV off.

—–

Untitled piece

by Bladud Fleas

Squeak up!, little mouse
for your opinions matter
unless I disagree with ‘em
and call in The Ratter.

You want perfectly semicircular holes
put along the wall
at the bottom
and cheesy triangles, (more holes),
on traps if I got ‘em
but only ones activated by tomcats’ tails!
for once, you’re singing my song
little mouse, we’re going to get along.

—–

Untitled piece

by Deb Whittam

No more cheese, for those
Who don’t earn their keep,
Do as I say while I sit here and eat.
Objections, just wait a mo,
I need to consume this camembert
Then I’ll do as I please

Yes taxes are a part of life
What you don’t like my new kitty ride
So just scram or I’ll set the pussies free.

What? This isn’t a dictatorship,
Throw him in that mouse trap
I won’t listen to his claptrap

I’m the President now
All the cheese is mine I say,
Hey don’t overthrow, it’s just a play.

—–

Hamster Hamster

by Joanne the Geek

Hamster Hamster
What’s your political opinion?
Hamster Hamster
Do you want to run for office?
Hamster Hamster
Do you want everyone to be your minion?
Hamster Hamster
Or at this game are you a novice?

Hamster Hamster
Are you a socialist?
Hamster Hamster
Maybe you’re a conservative?
Hamster Hamster
Though you’re probably a fascist
Hamster Hamster
Big fascist hamster with no relative

Hamster Hamster
Are you going to put us all in concentration camps?
Hamster Hamster
Are you going to close all the borders?
Hamster Hamster
Are you going to make us just use lamps?
Hamster Hamster
Or are we all going to become hoarders?

Hamster Hamster
Are you going to make us build you a giant hamster wheel?
Hamster Hamster
Or maybe we will toil in factories making you hamster treats
Hamster Hamster
Is your running mate going to be a big grey seal?
Hamster Hamster
Or maybe we will all be unemployed wandering the streets

Hamster Hamster
There in your little hamster cage
Hamster Hamster
I’m not sure I ever want to let you out
Hamster Hamster
What you might do to us is hard to gauge
Hamster Hamster
So just sit there and pout

—–

You Dirty…

by Michael B. Fishman

Mrs. Rat said to Mr. Rat: “Why aren’t you watching TV?”

Mr. Rat threw down his hunk of cheese and said: “Because I’m a rat and you’re a rat and everyone on TV is a rat.”

“But…?”

“But we’re good rats and they’re BAD and MEAN and ARROGANT and SELFISH rats. They’re NOGOODNIK rats!”

“You mean?” asked Mrs. Rat.

“Yes. Politicians. All of ’em. He’s a rat…” Mr. Rat said.

“She’s a rat…” Mrs. Rat answered.

“HERE A RAT…” Mr. Rat yelled.

“THERE A RAT…” Mrs. Rat yelled.

And in unison they said: “Everywhere a RAT, RAT” and ended with a two part harmony of, “And there’s no raaat in Democraaat and keep on eye, yes an eye, on the Mobocraaats.

Mr. and Mrs. Rat laughed and Mrs. Rat bent over and picked up her husband’s discarded piece of cheese and started to hand it back to her mollified husband but started nibbling it instead, dreamily thinking of a nice dollop of peanut butter on top of that chunk of cheddar. “Well,” she said. “Now I know why you turned off the TV.” She swallowed the cheese and said, “Hey, I feel better after our little duet.”

“I do, too.” Mr. Rat said as he eyed the piece of cheese clutched in her delicate and attractive hands. Suddenly he lost sight of the cheese as he focused on her long and well-groomed nails.

“What do you want to do now?” Mrs. Rat asked provocatively.

Still eyeing Mrs. Rat’s finely-boned hands and sensing her receptivity, Mr. Rat felt his vibrissae quiver and stiffen. He didn’t know if he could afford another dozen babies, especially after last month’s litter, but he didn’t really know if he cared. He’d think about that tomorrow. After all, he thought, tomorrow is another day. “Uh, I don’t know,” Mr. Rat answered. “How about you?”

—–

Untitled piece

by Nitin

I’m a fascist rodent in a moderate country
I stand as strong as the sentry
I believe what I believe because I believe what I believe and what I believe is believing in belief:
Belief that liberal hamsters will take their cheese someplace else
Belief that secularism will die! Die! Die
Belief that we’re comin for ya. Yeah, we comin for you little weakminded hamsters

—–

The Philosophical Differences In The American And German Approaches To Trade Policy (Rattus Rattus Version)

by Geoff LePard

Angela Merkel

The German gerbil

Dominated the world’s Rathaus.

She cleaned her whiskers

And bled her blisters

Caused by her love of Strauss.

Come on you chump

I’ll lead with trumps

Said the toe tapping rodent.

I find it’s the best

Way to road test

Which policies are the most potent.

If you only knew,

Said the pinched face shrew

Who pitched a wicked idea,

What the world really thought

About a rat without

A sausage and gassy beer.

The orange hued hamsta

More goon than gansta

Scoffed when told of her plans.

Sat on his white sofa

He fondled his gopher

And declared her ideas to be pants.

Just build a wall

To keep out them all

He declared with zero decorum

My ideas are a killer,

He addressed the chinchilla

Who chaired the NAFTA trade forum.

We’ll go it alone

He began to intone

And not plan but shoot from the hip

And we’ll play the white hat

And use a fat cat

To drive you rats from the ship.

—–

A Rodent Counteremployment

by Peregrine Arc

Hear hear, come to order and mind ye
That when we bang this here gavel we remind thee
That we did not cause the Black Plague, by any means!
‘Twas the fleas on my great Uncle Lou
who first carried the scourge to youse.
‘Twas none of our doin’.

And now onto Matter, Agenda Item, five hundred and forty three
We’ve saved a lot of your sorry behinds from death, haven’t we?
Being tested and prodded, killed and experimented
We’ve saved more lives than 911, you scurvy peasant.

And now, let’s see what the humans are after
Dear me, a wall, pollution, and clear disregard of natural disaster
A debt over a trillion; why when I last checked it was billions
And now they want, wait that can’t be true–surely they care about children more than who’s whom?
Disregard, disregard, onto House Bill Eleventy-Seven

All those in favor of banishing cats and birds alike–say aye!

—–

Crab Pot

by Violet Lentz

They call him Crabby Appleton
Tho’ his given name is Gerard
He holds no degree
from any university
He came up fast and hard.

Born just a common sewer rat
He learned at quite a young age
that slipping through cracks
and dealing out wacks
meant spending some time in ‘the cage’.

“There’s got to be a better way!”
He’d exclaimed to his man, Hench
upon his last release
for the quick cut and fleece
of some love birds on a park bench.

On a lark he decided on cracking a book
A thick one, filled chuck full of laws
twas there that he learned
a guy wouldn’t get burned
if he had him a slick set of jaws.

He caught a ride, straight out of the street
and into the house on the hill
by catching some wind
that a senator’d sinned
By messing round with some Judges, Jill.

From there the sky was the limit
as he had made all the proper connects
he won every election
as the only selection
For public servants who value their necks.

So, Vote for Crabby Appleton
Throw in with the self-saving lot
he smiles and he waves
an’ sends men to their graves
as he scales the electoral crab pot.

—–

Make Rats Great Again

by Michael of Morpethroad

The rat’s attack on the opposition was frightening,

He stood upon his soapbox

Promising everything to everyone.

The mice gathered at his feet

Stood aghast with disgust

‘The guys a liar,’ they whispered to each other.

Long the rat regaled them with what was wrong in society

The poor deserved to be poor,

The rich were deserving as they made the poor

Work tirelessly for them.

The mice muttered the rat must be insane

They wanted to shout their repugnance

Boo his policies

When to their left a chorus of cheers broke out

The rat had supporters,

Mice with banners, flags and a voice,

They cheered on the rat

They wore small caps with Make Rats Great Again

The mice looked at each other

Wondered what they might do.

The Rat smiled a malignant smirk

Nodded his head, urging his followers on.

—–

Rodents

by Ruth Scribbles

Rodents in the White House

Eating our cheese

Time to exterminate

Hurry…. please

—–

Thank you for entering! Come back around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s prompt.

my-name-57442-unsplash

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

 

*I did not read any of the poems aloud. I have small children. The accent-reading happened in my head.**

**Don’t ask.

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

I have never been so irritated in my life, except for the time I had to sit very still during nerve surgery at the dentist. Good work, poets.

As is the case every week, however, only one may be crowned the victor. This week that winner is: Nitin.

Untitled piece

by Nitin

This is the thirtieth time I’mma say this,
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,
so listen yo, this is the thirtieth time I’mma say this
yeah the thirtieth, so you listenin,
I met her in the thirtieth street
next to the thirtieth store on
the thirtieth year of my life,

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

I don’t know whose idea it was to take one of my least favorite things and have everyone poem about it, but that person needs to be fired. These poems were so difficult for me to get through. Just when I thought things couldn’t be more tortuous, I rescued a lone poem from my Spam folder. It may have been marked as such because the poet repeated the same message thirty times.

Thirty times!!!

Way to take the theme, wipe it all over the walls, and smash it into the judge’s face, Nitin.

And, to the rest of you, I award a tie for second place. You are all terrible:

To celebrate Number 30 or 5

by Bruce Goodman

To celebrate Number Thirty
I thought I’d write something dirty
but thirty’s not my favourite number
so I’m going for something humbler.
How about choosing Number Six?
It’s got an eS, it’s got an eX.
It almost seems to rhyme with flex
especially if you pronounce flecks like flicks
but I’m not an Australian.

And so I’m choosing Number Four
as in fourward and four goodness sake
and befour and God foursake-
en. Oh blow it! I’m going back to Number Thirty,
all other numbers make me waffle
which is offal.

So here, to Ms Chelsea, I present 30 roses
in a poesie
to congratulate on Number Five well on the way
that happiness and joy will be every day
and in a Million ways not just Thirty
which is flirty
and dirty
and shirty.
Five would be the number I would deign
to use if I had to start this poem again.

—–

2, By Juan Two

by Jon

Two knew there were only two.
Two who were. Two we rue.
Too much to do to those two;
Clearly too few, this we knew.
Two steps forward, back one plus two.

Deux you have to be too rude?
Maybe, nearly, twice as crude.
Twirly, twirly, twain tutu.
Two against two others skewed
Dos into moral turpitude

Two times kitty, kitty too.
Twice meowing, two mew, mew
Two too many. Many twos…
Two times two I bid you…
Adieu, Adieu! Adieu, Adieu!

—–

One One

by Deb Whittam

One wondered how one one the day
When it wasn’t there to be one anyway
One thought one might be confused
One often is to tell the truth
One then scratched one’s head and looked around
One wondered if one should hide underground
But one had one so one must confess
What one had one was anyone’s guess

—–

Furor over four

by Trent McDonald

Don’t think I’m a bore
To sing the praises of number four
For four is at the forefront of my forward fortress
Forever my numerical mistress
Ah four! Fortune smiles on four!
Sure, there’s four horsemen of the apocalypses
But does four graves make a necropolises?
Forget it, just sing praises for four!
Two squared is four!
Two plus two is four!
Two times two is four!
Two times two times two minus two minus two is four!
See, four ways to make four from two!
And the last had four twos for four!
Forever fortunate in math, four!
How do I love thee, four?
Let me count the ways!
One, two, three, four!
OK, no more
About four
The number
I adore
Four

—–

Untitled piece

by Bereaved Single Dad

Two years for Brexit
Two years and still no exit
Two Prime Minister candidates left
Two Blokes from the right
Two Privileged Backgrounds
Two supporters of hunting with Foxhounds
Two so called men of the people
Two big personalities who loath the townspeople
Two prize A buffoons
Two politicians so easy to lampoon
Two conservatives who love the tycoon
Two elitists who exist for the silver spoon
Two visions which only bring despair and gloom
Two numpties living in a policy vacuum
Two muppets who are so out of tune
Sadly one to be PM in June.

—–

🐜 The Irritated Ant 🐜

by Ruth Scribbles

There once was an ant named Pyzant
Who loved to sing loathsome pop songs
His family hated those cheesy peezy bongs
Sounding like thunder and marching ants
Did you know ants march?
One by one and never done
Ants are not sluggards
They are drunkards
And they keep singing
“The ants go marching five by two”
And they never ever tie their shoes
So irritating. Now I can’t get that out-
Of my head
And it’s time for bed

Zzzzzzzz

—–

Euler’s Number

by Magicquill17

E equals mc-squared,
Oh wait, fudge, it’s a poem about a number and not a physical quantity
So actually e equals 2.718281828459045
And on and on and on and on…
Until the end of time and space
If they have an end, that is.

So what’s the big deal about this e?
See, e raised to x is a very special function
Called the exponential function
But that’s not what’s special about that, no
(Though that could be, at least annoying if not special
Because in childhood they taught us that exponent is just repeated multiplication of a number by itself
Like 2^3 is 2×2×2
Which equals 8, by the way
(Not that it’s relevant)
And you would think that exponential function is x raised to some number
But no dear, oh no,
Exponential function is e raised to x
Annoying, ain’t it?
I know, I hate Maths too)

So the special thing is that the derivative
Of e^x is e^x itself
And so is the integral
(The slope of the function
Is the function itself
And the area under the function
Is the function itself)
Ain’t that clever? Ain’t that amazing?
Look me in the eye and tell me
That that’s not the most beautiful thing ever.
(I know you can’t because I’m behind a screen
Hehehe)

So yeah, e^x is also the inverse of log
Not the log burnt to cook food in primitive times, silly
The logarithm, logx to the base something
Usually- yes- e
Which is 2.718281828459045
Which is asking the question, to what power
Must I raise e
To get x?
See, Maths can be philosophical too.

So e, 2.718281828459045,
Is a very useful number
Because it makes calculations simpler
And that’s counterintuitive
Because you wouldn’t expect such a complicated number
To make things anything but difficult,
But trust me on that,
Because even though you probably don’t
Use it in real life,
I’m a science student.

So e, 2.718281828459045
Is hidden in nature
In spirals of shells, and butterfly wings
And other things people say to
Make themselves sound smart
Amd observant
When really they’ve just googled
‘Number e in nature’
To show it off to friends.
And so did I.
(Such candor.).
Honesty is the best policy,
Or should I say, polic- e?
Not the police that pulls you over for overspeeding, silly,
Policy, polic- e, get it?
I’ll just e myself out.

—–

Thanks again for playing, and come back tomorrow.

johannes-w-249542-unsplash

Nitin: 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. This week’s contest was amazing! I had a terribly fun time reading through everyone’s entries …and an equally terrible time trying to pick just one winner.

But a winner there must be. And that is Deb Whittam.

An ode to a piece of driftwood

by Deb Whittam

Luke was like a piece of driftwood
He floated his way into my life
And marooned himself on my stretch
Of the beach
He lay there salient
Watchful, still
He didn’t leave
It was kind of disturbing
I considered starting a fire
I considered tossing him back in
I considered getting my dog to poop
next to him, but in the end
But being driftwood
I walked round him
Then the tide came in and
He drifted out again
Days passed
Honestly I didn’t notice he was
GONE

But that’s what driftwood is like
Forgettable
Just like Luke
SUCH IS LIFE
… (Pause here to blow a raspberry)

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

As I said earlier, there were many excellent entries. The level of awful poetry was astounding and made for a difficult decision. Great work mixing meters, muddling themes, and morphing rhymes! Deb’s over-the-top features were all those elements working so well together. Good/bad job!

And the remaining entrants were terrible in their own right. Enjoy:

Anguish of a Poet

by BibleBloggerGirl

I’m writing a poem that needs to be deep
It’s supposed to have rhythm and metrical feet
Through bang-head-here moments I moan and I weep
While googling synonyms that start with an e.

—–

The Unspeakable Tragedy of Being an Astronomer

by Charlie

Astronomers have little hope
of life outside their telescope.

They study Mars
and neutron stars
and never ride with girls in cars

And, if they do acquire a wife
they are working each night for the rest of their life.

So, if studying a black hole
is your goal
prepare for it to crush your soul.

And, spending your life trying to prove dark matter
is even satter…

—–

Open slather

by Bruce Goodman

You are so well-rounded that you could be compared to a turnip,
and indeed you have earned it.
Everything you touch seems to turn to gold;
each and every talent that you hold.
Even when you play the violin
it’s so sensual it’s almost a sin.
When you simply fry an egg
it’s ten times tastier than when it’s fried by my Aunty Peg.

With a paint brush in your hand
you make Leonardo d’Vinci less a man;
not to mention when you do arithmetic
you are better at arithmetic than Arius was at being a heretic.
There’s very little you could be taught
when it comes to sport.
Compared to you the rest of us look dumb
so there’s no reason to walk around like you’ve got a carrot stuck up your bum.

—–

The Weekly Brouhaha

by Peregrine Arc

Every week, Ms. Chelsea posts
Hey you lot, write something gross!
Do your worst and you’ll get our praise;
Do your best, you’ll get week old mayonnaise.

And so I do, and so it went
Until I gave my last two cents.
I’ve wrote about summer, literary masterpieces and the lot
I’ve won twice, and I’m besought

So tell me now and tell me true
Who is the worst poet for you?
Is it so terrible to terribly tell a little lie?
And say that perhaps it’s the great Kahunana himself, Mr. Billy Sly?

No one understands the guy who Shakes the Speares
He could be making it up after all the years
No one understands what he’s trying to say
Truly, he’s laughing from his grave and giggling all the way.

Death to Oxford Commas.
Zazzle.

—–

The Ten

by BereavedSingleDad

The ten amazing PM candidates
Needed since the dreadful May abdicates
Boris Johnson
Looking out for number one
Jeremy Hunt
No more than an embarrassing publicity stunt
Michael Gove
Slowly disappearing in all the cocaine lies you wove
Dominic Raab
Wouldn’t trust you with a kebab
Sajid Javid
You make our police so livid
Matt Hancock
Talks utter poppycock
Mark Harper
Completely incompetent usurper
Esther McVey
Only wants you to obey
Rory Stewart
The leadership qualities of a Raspberry Tart
Andrea Leadsom
Will only bring national doom
That is Britain Today
A country in complete disarray

—–

The Car Nation On A Lawn

by Doug

Eee ha, ho down horse around,
dance the rainy reign reins away.

Rains rein in the picnic nit picks
but for every weed given rein to,
there will grow a rein-Carnation
and a carnation reincarnated as a weed.

—–

So You Say

by Michael B. Fishman

If I were from the southern part of the US I’d say something like, “Jiminy Christmas” instead of swearing. When I listened to a braggart I might think “he’s all hat and no cattle” and if someone got mad at me I’d smile and tell them that they can “just get happy in the same britches they got mad in”.

But I’m not from the southern part of the US.
Goodness gracious,
Although I am sometimes loquacious

I’m from the northern part of the US where I say stuff like, “You betcha” and where snow is called “snoooow” and where we all say “Yah” a lot and follow it up with “sure”, and where, when we talk to strangers, we begin every sentence with, “Oh”.

Like –

“Oh, how ’bout those Twins?”
or
“Oh, Olivia Johnson sure does make a good casserole.”
or
“Oh, didja see. . .”

Or “So”.

Like –

“So the Twins lost yesterday, eh?”
or
“So, didja hear Jim Larson got food poisoning from Olivia Johnson’s casserole?”
or
“So what’d’ya think of. . .”

And you didn’t hear this from me, but a lot of us pronounce “third” like “turd”.

So, yah, I’m from the northern part of the US.
You betcha,
And those little red dots you sometimes get on your skin? They’re petechia.

If I were from Mars I might talk and I might not talk because no one knows how Martians sound or if they even talk at all for that matter.

—–

Sunset, Sunrise

by Nakedinfiniverse

Slumped on sofa, feeling low,
Don’t wanna shop or outside go,
Shocking din beyond window;
Apocalypse? Malignant crows?
Curtains closed, so I don’t know,
But curiosity, so

I think take a look,
Rise to feet discarding book.
Need to eat, don’t want to cook.
Kitchen no cavern – more a nook…
Is it birds or fatal fluke?
Peak between drapes like cornered crook.

Three car pile-up – bedlam there,
Poking bones, blood-mussed hair.
Look away from sickening scare,
See ribbons of colour streaking the sky and I carelessly cease to care,
Horizon highlighting rhapsody rare;
Surprising sunset, breathtaking flare.

Pity poor victims; tarmac is read,
Rubberneckers shaking heads,
Twisted bodies lately dead.
Making sandwich, ready for bed,
Scraping mould from hunk of bread;
Provocative dreams if properly fed.

Pluck off blossoming, blue-grey yeast,
Anticipating impromptu feast,
Unforeseen shock – view faces east.
Time is thieving, night-fleecing beast.
Feel like a flock of silly geese;
Sunset west, sunrise east.

Radio wakes in hollow bedroom,
Morning call; warning tune.
Sat through night, blind to gloom.
Feel foreboding, forthcoming doom.
Skin feels pocked with autumn bloom.
Off to horrid office soon.

Better slough of sleepless grime;
Supper’s off; it’s breakfast time.

—–

Roses are Red

by Peter Martuneac

Roses are red
and white and pink.
Roses can also be
orange, I think?

Violets are blue,
And uh, tulips are…yellow?
I don’t know, I’m not a botanist. Or a poet.
So the end, bite me.

—–

Terrible Poem

by Ruth Scribbles

One two three four five
Counting seven syllables
Five four three two one

—–

Unexpected Treasure

by James Babwe

I cannot accurately say how far down it was.
At the time, I had no way to measure.
I could estimate, but that would be a guess.
Besides, I’d rather explain what I saw,
how I achieved a somewhat modest goal,
and enjoyed the unusual fruit harvested
from an unusual place which rewarded me
with a somewhat modest treasure.

Shining from the east, fiery streaks of sunlight slowly peeked
through clouds to warm the sandy sandstone bluffs,
the unstable wall between
Coast Highway and our planet’s largest ocean.

The salty surface of the massive sea was still and glassy as it slept.
I paused to pose in yoga stance
and stared at the horizon.

As chilly darkness surrendered to blue sky dawn,
I shifted my physical position and left my previous posture
to the past and headed for an outhouse where I hoped
to leave the liquid remnants of my light roast coffee.

Surrounded by blue plastic walls and door,
and squinting in the midst of acrid chemicals which did not mask
or complete the task that they were manufactured for,
I did what I’ll admit I cannot resist the urge to do.

I took a look into the tank below–
down into the pit–
down into a swarm of buzzing flies
and abandoned human exhaust product.

And there is where I found it–
silent, lonely, floating
with other objects which are not usually
mistaken for candy bars or old potatoes,
I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.

I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

Attempts to win the lottery
have never worked for me.
The Universe has not exactly
blessed me with its blissful luck.

But on one amazing morning,
I rescued a celebrity’s accessory.

Fortunately,
I did not fall in or make a mess of me.

In fact, after ending
its encounter with the ugly muck,
I let it dry for half an hour.

Inside,
I found a couple hundred bucks.

I found Deepak Chopra’s wallet in an outhouse at the beach.
I used an old coat hanger to retrieve
what my human hands alone could not quite reach.

—–

Vernix

by Violet Lentz

you will
never know
the scent of
baby powder
transports me back
to the first moment
i held you in my arms

(inhale)
(exhale)

in an instant
i am once again
breathing in the scent
of the waxy white vernix
that protected
your fragile foetal flesh
from the waters
of my womb..

and reminded,
that you should never
have had to protect
yourself like that
from me
again..

—–

Thanks to all who entered and for sharing your amazing talents! Tomorrow at 10 a.m. starts next week’s contest!

frida-aguilar-estrada-397167-unsplash

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