Shall I Compare Thee To A Mooseburger aka The Bad Poetry Thread

[Tech L. Me]

Wish Granted!

Here's the bad poetry thread, whether you write it yourself or find it online, show us the worst of the worst.

Attempted Assassination of the Queen
William McGonagall (yes, an actual poet)

God prosper long our noble Queen,
      And long may she reign!
Maclean he tried to shoot her,
      But it was all in vain.

For God He turned the ball aside
      Maclean aimed at her head;
And he felt very angry
      Because he didn't shoot her dead.

There's a divinity that hedges a king,
      And so it does seem,
And my opinion is, it has hedged
      Our most gracious Queen.

Maclean must be a madman,
      Which is obvious to be seen,
Or else he wouldn't have tried to shoot
      Our most beloved Queen.

Victoria is a good Queen,
      Which all her subjects know,
And for that God has protected her
      From all her deadly foes.

She is noble and generous,
      Her subjects must confess;
There hasn't been her equal
      Since the days of good Queen Bess.

Long may she be spared to roam
      Among the bonnie Highland floral,
And spend many a happy day
      In the palace of Balmoral.

Because she is very kind
      To the old women there,
And allows them bread, tea, and sugar,
      And each one get a share.

And when they know of her coming,
      Their hearts feel overjoy'd,
Because, in general, she finds work
      For men that's unemploy'd.

And she also gives the gipsies money
      While at Balmoral, I've been told,
And, mind ye, seldom silver,
      But very often gold.

I hope God will protect her
      By night and by day,
At home and abroad,
      When she's far away.

May He be as a hedge around her,
      As he's been all along,
And let her live and die in peace
      Is the end of my song.

[Blaze]

O' moose so furry and so brown,
Knobby kneed, came in to town,
Came in to town during a blizzard.
Came in to see the Dresden Wizard.

O' moose, he shook his head wide antled
Wizard with his duster mantled
At McNally's they hoisted beer
Discussing matters very deer.

A sorcerer had met the moose
Telling him he had to choose
Whether he or his sweet wife
Would be losing moosely life.

Moose came to seek sweet reason
From the Wizard, in winter season
Moose he wanted both life and love
And help from he who wore one glove.

"I did not know a moose could marry,
No evil sorcerer," quoth Harry
"Will end you or your moosely spouse.
Take me north to smite the louse."

So, north they went, by train caboose,
Harry Dresden and hairy Moose,
Rode in the last car not to drain
Or blow up technology on the train.

In the north the Missus Moose
Held by the sorcerer in a noose,
Wept until her nose, it ran.
Green and slimy on that man.

The sorcerer so evil with wards all around
had not a tissue to be found.
He caught moose mucus in a pail
and left green mounds along his trail.

"Which is worser?" Moose asked Harry.
"I find boogers pretty scary.
"A sorcerer, push to shove, is just a guy
"And I am fast, and smart and spry."

Sorcerer in his hide out planned and plotted
Over the cow moose which he'd gotted.
His evil mind began to churn
"You, my deer, I'll taxiderm."

He hoisted cloven hoofs aloft,
While the moose sneezed and coughed,
And while it caused her some back pain,
It also helped her sinuses drain.

That is when the moose espied
The evil mage and moosely bride.
Harry on the moose back mounted
The sorcerer had not upon counted.

Blasting rod and and glowing staff,
Shield bracelet and raucous laugh.
Mighty moose with heart so large
Courage pair prepared to charge.

Mrs. Moose, she gave a sneeze,
That knocked the sorcerer to his knees.
Harry followed with a spell
That sent him running back to hell.

Moose wife lowered to the ground,
Gratitude flowed all around,
As she thanked him for her life,
as Moose thanked him for his wife.

Happy Harry home did head,
To cuddle into his own bed,
To be inside his own house,
With Mister, Bob and his dog, Mouse.

_{To Jim Butcher, with love from Pam}

[val]

Ok.  This one is in honor of Rob MacDonald...


THE TALE OF McMORRIN
                  -or-
MERRY WIDOW’S DELIGHT

By Morgan Bloodaxe

This is the Tale of McMorrin.
   Whose fortune was lost in the war, and
Lacking money for plaid, he spent all that he had
   To purchase an extra large sporran.

Now, regimentally clad, he wasn’t half bad,
   And the fair ladies’ hearts were set pounding.
But the gents were aghast at the shadow he cast,
   Which, even at noon, was astounding.

He made churchmen and husbands uneasy;
   So, in an honest effort to please, he
wore his sporran just right, at the most modest height,
   Which was somewhere down under his kneesies.

Yes, this is the Tale of McMorrin;
   And lucky the day he was bornin’.
For the fates gave him then somewhat more than most men,
   And ever since then he’s been growin’.

Now, with poverty comes great despair;
   Almost more than McMorrin could bear.
But he girded his loins, for though lacking in coins,
   He still had some valuables there.

Then he called on the Widow Felicity,
   Who was as merry as a widow could wish to be;
And after six nights of carnal delights
   He put her in charge of publicity.

Soon all the merry young widows, adorin’.
   Were heaping praise on the peerless McMorrin—
And more gold in his purse than a dry man has thirst,’
   For it’s that kind of fame that makes fortunes.

So the years flickered past, all a-fleeting.
   For McMorrin all good years, exceeding.
For the Scotsman had found Endless Wealth and Renown
Are merely a matter of breeding.

Then, to the Tale of McMorrin, an ending:
He died.  Elderly, wealthy, and grinning.
Yes, he died in the night with his pride at its height,
And broke three widow’s hearts beyond mending.

At his funeral the tears fell in showers,
And he lay in a forest of flowers.
All the widows so grieved, yet could hardly believe
Even death could have toppled his tower.

On his coffin of marble and slate,
The Great McMorrin was sculptured in state.
Then they dug him right down to six feet under ground.
And on second thought took him to eight…

Since the loss of the peerless McMorrin,
Those merry widows just aren’t, anymore, and
They keep watch at his grave, and they endlessly pray
   The Resurrection will quickly restore him.

(How sad!)

Now, ladies, put an ending to all your distress!
   A modest secret I’m bound to confess:
I’m like my Uncle McMorrin, (only a little bit more), and
   …I’m sure we can work out the rest!

[Yeratel]

Topping even Vogon poetry, the title of Worst Poem Of All Time has been conferred upon William Topaz McGonagall's The Tay Bridge Disaster.
Follow the link,
And see what you think.
http://poetry.about.com/od/19thcpoets/a/mcgonagall.htm

[LizW65]

Follow this link to read some of Julia A. Moore, AKA "The Sweet Singer of Michigan":
http://www.wmich.edu/english/txt/Moore/
Mark Twain, among others, found her stuff hysterically bad.

[Yeratel]

Follow this link to read some of Julia A. Moore, AKA "The Sweet Singer of Michigan":
http://www.wmich.edu/english/txt/Moore/
Mark Twain, among others, found her stuff hysterically bad.

Julia Moore is definitely right up there with the worst of the worst that managed to actually get into print and sell books. To quote from the reviewers: "The Sweet Singer's verse is concerned to a large extent with total abstinence and violent death -- the great Chicago fire, the railway disaster of Ashtabula, the Civil War, the yellow fever epidemic in the South. She sings death by drowning, by smallpox, by fits, accidents by lightning-stroke and sleigh. "Julia is worse than a Gatling gun," wrote Bill Nye; "I have counted twenty-one killed and nine wounded, in the small volume she has given to the public." She also greatly relishes normal infant mortality, especially in cases where the little victim possesses blue eyes and curling golden hair; but in her celebrations of the centenary of American independence she strikes the sterner Kipling note more than once. "

[Blaze]

Toe Weasels
by: Blaze

Toe Weasels are
the worst by far
when they infest your brand new car.

Toe Weasels can
by fate or plan
make shadow shapes in your tan.

Toe Weasels stalk
you when you talk
on your cell and make it squawk.

Toe Weasels dance
in your pants
giving you a funny prance.

There may be other vermin
For example, the ermine,
That can make you go a squirmin’

But far worse than having measles
Worse by far than sneezles,
are the dread Toe Weasels.

Ms Linsenmayer knows
All about the woes
Of dread Weasel Toes.

[Ms Duck]

I could never match
such glorious prose
with hand on my breast
or finger up my nose
I can but vainly reply
with old classic I knows

the was a haut lady Rian
Who hypnotized Vor scion
the little deffective
thinks hes a detective
he shall soon be fed to the lion

[Bob]

Erato, lounging by a spring in her Olympic splendor
Received a message from Azan, by turtle dove he sent her
A most heartfelt entreaty, in which he wrote “Dear Mother,
They are abusing your great gift to outdo one another.

For Poetry the times are bad, the standards all have fallen
And angsty black-clothed teenagers now claim it is their callin’
As well as those who foreign are to rules of rhyme and meter,
So please descend and set them straight.” Thuswise he did entreat her.

“Surely he does overstate”, said she, the poet’s Muse
“There’s always been bad poetry—that’s hardly even news”
Still from her spring she stirred herself to see if he spoke sooth,
She cloaked herself from mortal eyes and sought to find the truth.

No sooner from Olympus onto earth had she arrived
Than torrents of bad poetry into her spirit knived.
Omphaloskepsis by the ton from self-obsessive twits
And random words passed off as verse by self-deluded gits.

Amidst the flood there were, she found, a few real poets there
Who battled ‘gainst the rising tide despite growing despair
Immovable as Spartans, they weathered fashion’s scorn
Treasuring Erato’s gift, bestowed when they were born.

“My faithful few, my champions, you will be well rewarded
And honors denied unto you now will one day be accorded.
As for the rest, such logorrhea makes my spirit woozy
But modern tech has just the cure.  Someone hand me an Uzi.”

[Blaze]

I wouldlike to award Bob a ribbon for using the word Logorrhea.  Thank you, Bob.

[Sorryman105]

I refuse to attend the award I know will show up for this thread for the best bad poetry. I'd probably pee a little for laughing to much.

[Bob]

I wouldlike to award Bob a ribbon for using the word Logorrhea.  Thank you, Bob.

Thank you.  While it's easy to write mediocre poetry, writing bad stuff is much harder.  Finding just the right pretentious term, forcing rhymes, inappropriate subject matter, incongruity, and insipid meter are difficult to bundle up into one work.

[Blaze]

Yes, I know.  My business card actually lists Bad Poetry on it as one of my specialties.  It is a rare and wondrous thing to Muse Ick and dance.   

[Purpura]

I'm a bit of a poet, but I've forgotten the correct Iambic Pentameter beat so this poem goes here... It's not too bad, just sad...

The hands of my grandmother

When they were young they felt different things
Ribbons bows clothes and strings
The feel of tree bark
Toys, maybe a Noah's ark

When they were older they knew
the weight of a wedding band, clothes of blue
and other colors. Diapers, baby clothes for three
The touch of my grandfather's hands, Car and house key...

They aged more, and soon a baby girl was held
and eventually my brother. She changed diapers that smelled
Or at least my mom did. Her hands lost plumpness and became bonier
and in 1980, with the love of her life passing away became a little lonelier

She moved from Florida to Washington DC,
Hands of her children helping far from Atlantic sea.
She decided not to cook very much
but her hands still loved with every touch

Her children, her grandchildren and a great granddaughter
I am far from these loving hands across many miles of land and water
 These hands now lie still, though they helped her eat, and wipe away tears of joy and grief,
 and put shoes on her feet. Now they hold a handkerchief.

These hands once so active lying still
Me, forget her hands, I never will.
Time wore them out, with wrinkles and spots,
knuckles more visible, and arthritic knots

May my hands be just as loving as hers
for the children - my darling daughter's
When She has grown up and gotten married
As time sails on and never has tarried.

[Blaze]

 
Sniffle....
sniffle...
Wahhhhhhhhhhh.