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
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
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. 💰
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.
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
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
I drank wine
The sun shine
Oh yeah oh yeah
Oh yeah oh yeah
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
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
On the bellies of birds
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.
can be some tedious work.”
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 😉
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
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,
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
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.
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
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,
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.
Bruce: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner: