WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Well, well, well, class. This week you have made me truly proud. The level of terribleness was almost palpable; the rhymes painful; the “swearing” so very entertaining. Thank you.

As almost always, however, there can only be one winner. This week, that winner is Ruth Scribbles.

YO MAMA

by Ruth Scribbles

Slam and a bam
And a hip hop cam

A buck and a tuck
And a Fock Fock Fock

Boo rah chee rah
Bum boom bah

My mama don’t like
Your mama thinks
She better

Rama mama not yo mama
Yo yo mama nana

Daddio patio
Whoop whoop whoooo

Im done with this rap
A tat a tat a tat tat
TAT

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

I had a difficult time narrowing results down with the level of talent/cringe-ness for this round. After all was said and rhymed; Ruth’s winning points were her second stanza (A buck and a tuck / And a fock fock fock), her cliché rap references, and her poem’s overall terribleness.

At least two others were close finalists; and all made me laugh through my tears of pain. Read below, and enjoy them as well:

Untitled piece

by Nitin

Yo, yo, this is for all them fellas in the hood,
Don’t let the Five-O ruin your mood,
Let’s keep it gangsta till the end
Let’s fight them snitches and beat the reverend???
Yo, yo, I know I can’t rap for nuts
But I think my anaconda likes them big butts

—–

Untitled piece

by Doug

**** cool
stitch in time, mind ****
dress to the nines, fine
Chantilly lace hangin’
ditty bop well hung ****
hanging ****
banging ****
want you babe bad
bad *** jerky ****
chill hot

—–

It’s a Clean House, Yo

by Peregrine Arc

Yo, yo I stubbed my toe
Gotta get back now to shine my halo.
I mix my speaks, get down in my sneaks
And then I start the hammer on my
Beautiful Louisiana

Vroom, vroom now grab the broom
Word, we’ve got laundry to do.
We must clothe a thousand men
With all the clothes in this here pig pen.

So grab that broom,
Cause you know how we do.
And before you know it, girl…
We got this house shining like a pearl!

My, my, my the house look so fly
That’s what happens when you clean.
So serene, so lean, so pristine
I need to call my girl, Justine.

Now check yourself before you wreck yourself–to the chorus!

Wax on…wax off.
Wax on…wax off.
Momma didn’t raise no fool now–
Wax on…wax off.
Wax on…wax off.

Word to your Hoover.

—–

The Anti-Rap Rap (audio version)

by Trent McDonald

I don’t do rap
But some of the time
Put the pencil to the paper
For some pretty mean rhyme

Anti-rap rap
The anti-rap rap

I try to go deep
But it’s often Willy-nilly
I Can look pretty stupid
Or write very silly

Anti-rap rap
The anti-rap rap
*Something like this* Techno

Often my verse
Comes out perverse

Send it away in a Hearst!
With a loud curse

For
I might say “you lose with booze”
Or you might bring me good news
But the words I use
Show my views
Have no Clues!

They stick out
Like Sore Tooths!

See?
It’s not to be!
Don’t have the key
No good rhyme for me!

More techno
Anti-rap rap
The anti-rap rap
Techno solo

I spew this stuff
Shovel it up in a pile
But my one big hope
Is Today….

Today…

I made you smile!!

Anti-rap rap
The anti-rap rap

—–

Fa la la la la – A rap

by Bruce Goodman

Verse:
You say you don’t want me in your life
Well that cuts like a knife
You say that life’s a breeze
You can say what you please
It won’t bring me to my knees
You’re such a sleaze.
You’re just like the old woman who lived in a shoe
I don’t know why she reminds me of you.
You think I’m going on and on with this rap
Well just cut the crap
I too can talk the talk
And I don’t give a fork.

Chorus:
I don’t give a fork
I don’t give a fork
Fa la la la la
I don’t give a fork.
You dork.

—–

Camel Meat with Thyme

by D. Wallace Peach

It a crime not to rhyme
Or do time in the clamor slammer
For the chime of the hammer
Don’t be a mammal
Better trammel
On a camel. Huh.

What you yammer in a verse
Don’t need to rhyme perverse
Keep the curse in your purse
How you like my meat
Cooking camel in the heat
Serve it with a beet. Huh.

Sometime gotta play the game
Gotta eat the meat, Pete
We rap a beat the same
With a handle for our name
Wolfing camel or parakeet
Ain’t it a culinary treat. Huh.

—–

Oi

by Deb Whittam

My mom said a ok
You will cook or I’ll make you pay
You do nuthin but twitter and insta
So I think its time you all cooked me dinna.

—–

Thank you all. Peace out.

dom-hill-465368-unsplash

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

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

‘Sup, yo? This here’s the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. We’re all up in yo’ proprieties fo’ 23 weeks now, bruh.

Wanna play? Being terrible isn’t as simple as ya think. That’s why I’ve got a basic overview and about 22 weeks of contests y’all can read through. This is more about missing a beat, tricking a pattern, an’ appalling audiences with lost metaphors.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Chelsea’s all for equal treatment of genres, so the Topic is Cliché Rap.
  2. This beat don’t need to be as long as Mom’s Spaghetti. Keep the Length to a few verses or fewer.
    An’ keep the submission limit to 3.
  3. Rhyme? It’d be sublime if you’d rhyme sometimes; crime the mind and throw us all off when you suddenly stop.
  4. Above all, make it terrible. Nicki Minaj, Eminem, and Drake need to feel compelled to call upon the awesome power of Tupac to sneak into your house and steal the vowels from your keyboard, so they never have to sit through that again.
  5. This blog’s generally a general audience sort, but the judge is not ignorant as to the content of most rap. I therefore suggest you try for PG-13. Get creative with asterisks if you want; just don’t offend your mom.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (May 3) to submit a poem.

If you wish to remain anonymous till next week, use the form. Leave me a comment saying that you did so I will be able to tell you whether I received it.

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

Have fun!

dom-hill-465368-unsplash.jpg

Photo credit:
Dom Hill

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

I was worried when I didn’t get many entries for this week’s contest. Perhaps you were shy? In the end, though, we had a good and difficult-to-judge turnout. Thank you all for participating; you make picking a winner nigh impossible every Friday.

No more suspense. The winner is Furious Pockets.

“It’s Raining Phlegm,” from “It’s Raining Men”

by Furious Pockets

Temperature is rising — energy’s getting low
According to my doctor, work is not the place to go
Cause today, I don’t feel fine,
And since just about half-past ten
For some weird reason, a mystery,
My nose started raining phlegm!

It’s raining phlegm! Gesundheit, it’s raining phlegm! Ahem!
I’m gonna stay inside and let my tissues get
Absolutely soaking wet!

It’s raining phlegm! Gesundheit, it’s raining phlegm! Every specimen!
Yellow, green, lumpy and long
And sometimes red—I think something’s wrong!

WITH a much-needed Honorable Mention to Michael B. Fishman, who wrote EIGHT song parodies this week. I had trouble picking a favorite, but laughed the most with “Traction.”

“Traction” (“Satisfaction”)

by Michael B. Fishman

I can’t get no, tire traction.
I can’t get no, tire traction.
Tires spin, and they spin, and they spin and they spin
I can’t get no . . .

When I’m drivin’ in the snow,
and the weatherman’s saying what I already know;
he’s supposed to bring back warmer weather –
supposed to clear up icy roads.
I can’t get no . . .  No traction.

Congratulations, Furious Pockets! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

Every week, I post the entrants from the form and from the announcement post into a new blog post. I paste them without names, then go do something to cleanse my memories of who wrote what. I try my darndest to be impartial.

Today took so long because of a busy schedule, but also because I could not settle on a winner. You all write so terribly well, and parody well enough to make a grown Al Yankovic cry. At such a high level of skill, cleverness, and cringiness; I went with Furious Pockets for following the original song meter well, mostly keeping to the subject, and for a terrible subject matter.

As is our usual, this does not mean the rest were any less terrible. If you submitted a poem/song this week, go right ahead and give yourself an awkward pat on the back. These are fantastic:

“Just Pay Me” (“Let it Be”)

by Michael B. Fishman

When I find my teeth feel like loose rubble,
Dentist Mary comes to me speaking words of crowns and
“Just pay me, just pay me.”
And when I hear the drilling she is standing right in front of me,
“I’ll save your teeth of wisdom, just pay me, just pay me.”

—–

Inspired by “Ice, Ice Baby” by Vanilla Ice

by Peregrine Arc

Alright stop.
Collaborate and listen, while I sit back in my brand new invention
The muse will grab ahold of you tightly
It’ll flow like a harpoon deadly and mighty
Will it ever stop? Yo I don’t know
Let’s turn on the lights and watch the poet go
To the extreme I wield my pen
Light up the words and rhyme like a fluffy hen

Nice, nice poetry… Really nice, nice poetry.
Nice, nice poetry. It’s really nice nice poetry…

—–

Untitled, but mostly seems inspired by “Bohemian Rhapsody”

by Nitin

Mama just drilled a man (not what you think!)
Put a drill against his teeth
Pulled the trigger, now the cavity’s filled
Mama that tooth was just decaying
But now I’ve gone and filled it all the way
Mama, saaay ahhh
Didn’t mean to become a dentist
If I’m not administering anaesthetic tomorrow
Scream on, scream on because everything matters

—–

“Bird Drips Keep Fallin’” (“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head“)

by Michael B. Fishman

Bird drops keep falling on my head,
and just like guy whose head is not really too big I never wear a hat,
those bird drops keep falling on my head and I’m bawling.
Because they smell, and they don’t smell very well.

—–

To the tune of the old Beatles classic: “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”

by TanGental

Position yourself on the left of the centre
A democrat with a glint in the eye
Make a friend with a tea party member
Who’s more interested in the How than the Why.
Set up a committee to debate the issues
That matter to ordinary men on the bus.
Given them a budget to commission reporting
And let them know you don’t want a fuss.
Technical topics are always banned
They’ll only go over your heads
Look instead for a popular cause like a wall
And it’s done
Nancy’s in cahoots with Donald
Nancy’s in cahoots with Donald, ah, ah
Follow them now until the election
And watch as they build a castle of lies.
No one smiles and everything’s gone sour
And the only way out is to get high….

—–

“The Buffet” (“A Horse With No Name”)

by Michael B. Fishman

On the first leg of the buffet I was looking at all the rice.
There was brown and white and jasmine too
all this food for just one low price.

At the first stop on the buffet I was holding a sharp steak knife
There was strip, T-Bone and sirloin too
all this food who needs Herbalife?

I’ve been through the buffet with a plate in my hand
the beans were cold but I didn’t complain.
At the buffet you can eat ‘till you puke
until your belt it can’t stand the strain.

—–

“My Dear Ottoman” (“Mrs. Robinson”)

by Michael B. Fishman

And here’s to you, my dear ottoman,
seize my bottom with your wired spring coils
Woo, woo, woo.
Oh if you please, my dear ottoman,
I hope your fabric never fades away
Hey, hey, hey.

I’d like to know a little bit about your plushy piles
and how they always manage to soothe mine.
I sit on you for hours and I stand up with a smile
stroll around the house until I sit again.

—–

“All You Need is Money!” (“All You Need is Love”)
“Can you Imagine?” (“Imagine”)
“HELP!” (“Help!”)

by Ruth Scribbles

Cash, Cash, Cash,
Cash, Cash, Cash
Cash, Cash, Cash

Imagine there’s no money
It’s hard but please try
No food in your belly
Above you only sky

I need some money
(Help) not just pennies
(Help) Hands up!! I want some
(huzza)

Imagine all the rich folks
Living like you do
Beggars would be riders
Horses wishes too

All you need is cash
Cash is all you need

—–

“Ambitious Kinds” (“Suspicious Minds”)

by Michael B. Fishman

I just caught the clap, from some gal I met.
Why did I think I loved you baby?

Why can’t you see, what you’ve given to me?
How will I ever tell my family?

We can’t get back together, this penicillin’s mine.
And we can’t get together, until the doc says you’re fine.

—–

“Brainy Gals and Sundaes” (“Rainy Days and Mondays”)

by Michael B. Fishman

Walkin’ by myself and feeling cold.
Sometimes I will admit
to feeling like I just don’t fit.
Lookin’ around,
Trying not to feel cast down,
brainy gals and sundaes always get me down.

What I’ve got to do is lift my mood.
Tell myself it’s not my fault,
forget the sundae, drink a malt.
Lookin’ around,
sad eyes and a broken frown.
Brainy gals and sundaes always get me down.

Funny but it seems I always crave a barbecue.
Nice to know somebody’s cooking.
Funny but it seems that when I wake up and come to,
she is still so darn good looking. (So darn good loooooooking)

What I feel I can make go away.
But ice cream makes me want to pout
and brainy gals I can’t sort out
Moping around,
feeling like I’ve just been drowned,
brainy gals and sundaes always get me down.

—–

“That Tea Cozy” (“Cracklin’ Rosie”)

by Michael B. Fishman

That tea cozy I adore.
Keeps my tea warm till there ain’t no more to pour,
I’m sipping it slow,
lord don’t you know.
Have me some fun with a cup of oolong.

Twitching from too much caffeine.
Ain’t nothing wrong I just had one cup too much,
this tea it’s my crutch,
to drink, slurp and such.
Don’t need no more ‘cuz this tea it keeps me going.

Oh, I love my oolong tea, man.
It’s got the snap to make me happy.
Tea and me we drink in style, man.
My tea cozy, you store bought cover,
if you weren’t made of cloth I’d make you my lover.
So keep my tea warm and we’ll keep on drinking onnnnnnnn.

Pour it now… pour it now… pour it now my cozy.

—–

Thank you all, again, for spending the time to make us all laugh (or maybe cry). Tomorrow, I will be sure to outline what I will look for in whatever theme comes to me, and possibly to impose a submission limit. 😉

eduardo-balderas-801340-unsplash

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

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Greetings and welcome to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest, v. 15.

If you’re new or forgetful, read my how-to on terrible poeting so you know what I’m talking about. Then, read the following rules and enter:

  1. Topic: Satirical Pop Song. Parody a specific one if you want, or go your own way. (Link to Billboard’s Top Pop Song Chart.)
  2. How long should you croon? Write us a verse or two and a chorus; there’s no need for “Bohemian Rhapsody,” after all.
  3. Most pop songs rhyme, so I’ll expect at least some of that sugar. I’m not going to kick anyone out who can’t think of anything that works with ‘Sheeran,’ though.
  4. Lyric us something terrible. Make Weird Al shake his head and say, “I never would have gone there” -and then secretly try to match your style.
  5. As usual, keep it PG-rated.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (March 1, 2019) to submit a poem.

It’s always fun when we can read what everyone has thought of before The Final Countdown. If you want that, include or link to your poem in the comments below. If you’re shy, though, post using the submission form.

 

eduardo-balderas-801340-unsplash.jpg

Photo credit:
Eduardo Balderas

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard since last week’s contest. No -I’m certain I laughed even more this morning. My four-year-old kept looking up from whatever-he’s-getting-into-so-I-can-write and asked if I was all right. Repeatedly.

I’m in favor of calling everyone a winner. Buuuuut… two poems had the same level of my definition of terrible poetry; so, in a first-ever gesture, I am assigning two winners:

Awake in a Manger

by Molly Stevens

Awake in a manger
His bed lined with straw
The little Lord Jesus
Looked up at his maw.

With a moo moo here and a moo moo there
Here a moo, there a moo, everywhere a moo moo.

The mother and father
Looked down where he lay

With a neigh neigh here and and a neigh neigh there
Here a neigh, there a neigh, everywhere a neigh neigh.

The little Lord Jesus
Let out a great bray.

Hush little baby don’t say a word
Mama’s given birth in an animal herd.
If that animal herd don’t sleep
Mama’s gonna fall apart and weep.

I love thee Lord Jesus, but I beg thee and pray,
Give me relief, some sign of your presence.
Hark! The herald angels looked down on the fray,
And sent down a helper – an angel named Clarence.

Now every time there’s a crying King
An angel gets at least one wing.
E-I-E-I-O.

—–AND—–

Christmas Cheers

by Gerard LaDamus

Christmas time is here,
Christmas time is near,
Let’s have a Christmas beer,
For the New Year

Good times we will have,
With Santa and the elfes,
A true Christmas blessing,
Having Zen on our shelves

Let the bubbly flow,
Soon we’ll be kissing under the mistletoe,
Toss the figgy pudding,
Nobody likes that crap, who are we kidding

Christmas presents wrapped with care,
Let’s hope jolly ol’ Saint Nick soon appears,
Maybe I’ll get a rabbit or a hare,
It’s better than a box of Bartlett pears

Baby it’s cold outside,
Get close by my side,
Let’s make an Christmas elf,
We can name him Relph

Christmas time is here,
Christmas time is near,
Let’s have a Christmas beer
For the New Year

—–

Congratulations, Molly and Gerard! You are the Most Terrible Poets of the week. Share the crown, I suppose. Sing to all of your terrible prose!

Molly had me cringing as I chuckled, at her insertions of mismatched chorus in her traditional carol. I started laughing aloud at the baby braying and could only feel admiration as my poetic sensibilities were twisted uncomfortably for the remainder of the poem.

Gerard, a first-time contestant (welcome!), dashed away with those same sensibilities at his terrible meter, timing, spelling, and subject matter. I mean –what is this song about? Admittedly, the element that bumped him to first was ‘elfes’ and ‘Relph.’ Argh.

Do yourself a solid, and read (sing?) the rest of these. If I could find music for all of them, I’d offer to release a Christmas album for you all:

Yuletide balls

by Bruce Goodman

We’re hanging our balls on the tree
pa rum pum pum pum
We got them at various shopping malls
pa rum pum pum pum
They come in all shapes and colors
pa rum pum pum pum
And some of the balls are our mother’s
pa rum pum pum pum

Chorus:
Balls! Balls! Wonderful yuletide balls!
We’re hanging them on the tree
There’s nothing to match them
I warn you – don’t scratch them
Everyone who sees them is filled with admiration
If the tree and balls catch on fire there’ll be a conflagration.

Everyone who sees them shine bright
pa rum pum pum pum
Says see how they catch the light all through the silent night
pa rum pum pum pum
After we’ve finished hanging our balls
pa rum pum pum pum
We’re going to start making the hors (hors should rhyme with balls if you’re reading it our aloud)
d’oeuvre
pa rum pum pum pum
For Christmas dinner
pa rum pum pum pum

Chorus:
Balls! Balls! Wonderful yuletide balls!
We’re hanging them on the tree.
There’s nothing to match them.
Be careful not to scratch them.
Everyone who sees them is filled with admiration
If the tree and balls catch on fire there’ll be a conflagration.
Alleluia!

—–

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas, by Death Metal Grunge

by Death Metal Grunge (AKA Bladud Fleas)

ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
EEEUGHHHHCHRISSMAAAAAAS

Gotta dead tree an painted all the chrissmas lights blaaack
Got yooza present, here’s the receipt, so you can take it baaaaack
To Waaaal-maaaart. Yeah, shame they don’t do death head tattooooos
Cos that is what I wooda bought for yooz. Yeah.

ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
EEEUGHHHHCHRISSMAAAAAAS

Decorated the room and nailed my sock above the FIRE
If I said it didn’t hurt a bit I’d be a LIAR
It’d learn me to take my foot outta it BEFORE
But the blood splatter goes with the gizzards and the GORE

YEEAAH Santa’s gonna puke.
ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
ChrissmaaassChrissmaaasChrissmaaas
CHRISSSSMAAAAAASSSS
EEEUGHHHHCHRISSMAAAAAAS

(ad lib & fade)

—–

Reindeer’s Fly at Night

by Anneberly

Sung to the tune of “Christmas Don’t be Late”

Reindeer’s, reindeer’s in the sun
Sleep for hours and have no fun
They can’t cook, nor can they bake
Lazy reindeer’s, need to wake
Santa’s sleigh is packed with toys
For all the lil’ girls and boys
Sun has set, the moon is bright
These reindeer’s fly at night

Santa’s sleigh is packed with toys
For all the lil’ girls and boys
Sun has set, the moon is bright
These reindeer’s fly at night

Sun has set, the moon is bright
These reindeer’s fly at night

—–

Untitled piece

by D. Wallace Peach

Sung to the tune of We Three Kings

We three drunks of the neighborhood bar
Pounding shots we daren’t drive the car
Bloody Mary, beer and brandy
Oh my gosh, I’m seeing stars

Bourbon, I love you, high as a kite
Bar with a mirror lit up so bright
To the gutter leading, hope I’m not bleeding
Guide us to thy Michelob Light

Chicken wings, my mouth is on fire
Give me a pint to douse the hot pyre
Drunks forever, barfing never
Karaoke carols join the choir

Oh-ohhhh, bar of wonder, bar of blight
Bar of cocktails, blurry-eyed sight
Olives and cherries, I’m feeling merry
Cheers to a tipsy Christmas night!

—–

Candy Canes

by Ruth Scribbles

Sung to the tune of “Deck the Halls”

Line the streets with sugary treats

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

‘Tis, time to sleep and not make merry

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

Merry is as merry does

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

Does the candy go buzz buzz?

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

*

Merry Jane is insane

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

She puffs a pipe and always gripes

La fa la fa la, fa la fa la

If you give her some advice

La fa la fa la fa la fa la

She will turn you into ice

La fa la fa la fa la fa la

—–

Mingle Smells

by Peregrine Arc

Sung to the tune of “Jingle Bells”

Mingle smells, mingle smells
I have tooth decay
Oh what fun, it is to say
You smell like puke today.

Dashing through the roads
In a stolen minivan
Past the cops we go
Laughing all the way
Ha ha hah!

Cops on phones do ring
Making handcuffs tight
Oh what fun it is to run
From committing crimes tonight!

Oh! Mingle smells, mingle smells
I have tooth decay
Oh what fun, it is to say
You smell like puke today.

Oh! Mingle smells, mingle smells
I have tooth decay
Oh what fun, it is to say
You smell like puke today…

—–

All I Want for Christmas

by Natalie K.

All I Want for Christmas

All I want for a Christmas is a kid who eats,
A kid who eats,
A kid who eats.

Oh, all I want for Christmas is a kid who eats,
Then I could have a Merry Christmas.

It seems so long since I’ve not said,
“You didn’t eat your dinner, so no snacks in bed”.
It seems so long since I was glad,
Not sitting at the table and getting mad.

All I want for Christmas is a kid who eats,
A kid who eats,
Oh, a kid who eats.

Gee, if I could only have a kid who eats,
Then I could have a merry Christmas!

—–

Christmas Chaos

by Brad (Writing to Freedom)

Technically this was written for last week’s theme, but we’ll go with it!

Twas the night before Christmas and chaos filled the house

Elves were chasing Santa’s mouse

Mrs. Claus was posing with a potted Dancer

Vixen was determined to ride Prancer

cups were flowing with spiked nog

creating a bit of a toy backlog

yuletide traditions were put aside

preparing for a naughty sleigh ride

with visions of mischief and merriment

Santa long past the age of retirement

this tale has gone awry

on Comet, on Cupid, it’s time to fly

You were all wonderfully awful! Come back the Saturday after Christmas to enter again!

john-christian-fjellestad-477604-unsplash

Midweek Musings on Irony

Isn’t life ironic, don’t you think?

Although, it’s not so much like rain on your wedding day as
That car that pulls out right when you walk up to its much closer parking space, from where you had to park a mile away.