Parody

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 4/17/2020

/ Chel Owens / 35 Comments

Kevin’s going to kill me, but the winner of the best Coronavirus song parody is:

“Close Yourself”
(“Lose Yourself” by Eminem)

by Dumbest Blogger

Look
If you had
One cough
One fever temperature
That could possibly mean COVID-19
With no treatment
Would you stay inside
And not take a trip?

Yo
His plans were ready, two weeks, temperature steady
He’s coughing on his dear aunt Betty, she’s not ready
Needs nurses, clean surfaces, soap and water
Will right wrongs, but sometimes he forgets
To just stay home, he wants to go out
He makes up a route, but can’t even buy trout
He’s breathin’ loud, everybody’s worried now
Masks help in reality, no room now for leavity
Oh, here’s a pandemic, no joke
He feels bad, it’s so tough to be sneezy! Oh!
He can’t have it! No, not COVID, he hopes
To make the curve flatter. At home, he stays there out of soap
It’s so flagrant. The Pope, he wants ventilators in Rome. Hey what’s this?
Back to the lab again yo, make a vaccine ready
Better let go of this Pangolin and hope he don’t eat it

You better, close yourself in you home, your apartment
You know it, you better never, ever, ever go!
You only have one cough, but sneezing is how it grows!
This COVID-19 could end somebody’s lifetime
You better

He sure like’s vaping, could be better at breaking
The lung’s for COVID’s taking
What a fling, China likes the World Health Org’ers
The staying home is boring, and now we’re really closing the border!
His breathing gets harder, fever gets hotter
He blows his nose harder, He knows he should stay in
Host to host blows, he could be a major infector
Lonely homes, job market slows, he’s chosen working from home, near the larder
He stays home, and barely even hears his own laughter
He blows his nose, and here comes the old farter
The store doesn’t have it no more, no toilet products
Virus moved to the next soul it goes, his nose roves and he needs sanitizer
So soap bill just grows, and slows, I hope this whole COVID, the virus goes on
Da-da-dum, da-dum, da-da

You better, close yourself in you home, your apartment
You know it, you better never, ever, ever go!
You only have one cough, but sneezing is how it grows!
This COVID-19 could end somebody’s lifetime
You better

—–

Congratulations, Dumbest Blogger! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

Hands down, these are some of the best parodies out there. For those who didn’t ‘win,’ I hope you publish yours and get YouTube famous (Ritu’s already on her way). Dumbest Blogger, I just couldn’t not recognize the incredible effort you put into parodying so much of Eminem’s famous rap. I mean -“dear aunt Betty”?? Genius.

For a different sort of singalong, here are some chart-toppers:

“If this doesn’t make you sick, then nothing will”
(“Theme from The Love Boat“)

by Richmond Road

Love, exciting and new
Come aboard. we’re infecting you.
Love, let’s all get in close.
My holiday romance, can I give you a dose?
The love boat, with passengers old and vague
The love boat. Soon we’ll be spreading another plague
Set a course for the hospital
Your mind on rewriting your will
And if I don’t survive this then I sure as heck won’t pay the bill.

Love. That won’t go away.
In the cabin next door
They didn’t wake up today
Love. That we can all share
And finish our cruise in intensive care
The love boat, we’ll soon have the world on its knees
The love boat. Let’s incubate love and disease
Now please step away, ’cause I think I am going to sneeze.

Love. What a wonderful cruise
Where life becomes cheap
Just like the booze
Love. A ménage a trois?
Let’s cough on each other down by the bar
The love boat. Don’t ever pay them in cash
The love boat. More than an embarrassing rash
And if we don’t find safe harbour they’ll be throwing us out with the trash.

—–

“Space For Mom”
(“Stacy’s Mom” by Fountains of Wayne)

by Obbverse

Stacey’s mom, she’s got it goin’ on,
Stacey’s mom, she’s always been the one,
Stacey’s mom, since adolescence has begun,
Stacey’s mom, in my dreams she’s coming on.

Stacey can I come over after school (after school)
Can I lay by your pool thinking of your mom (and drool)
Stacey has your mom come back from her New York trip?
The thought of her returnin’ makes my hear flipping skip.

You know, I’m not the little boy you used to see
I’m all grown up, boy, it’s painfully obvious to me.

Stacey’s mom she’s got it goin’ on;
In short, she’s the one for whom I long,
Stacey when I look at you you’re just a girl to me,
Yes, its wrong and creepy, but I’m sweet on Stacey’s mom.

OH- Stacey’s mom has got her hot bikini on,
Guess I’m laid up till my temperature has gone.

Stacey do you ‘member when I mowed your lawn? (your lawn/)
Your mom came out with but a tea towel on (hardly on)
I could tell she liked me from the smile we shared (smile we shared)
I love to see those big beautiful bountiful teeth bared (big teeth bared)

And i think its more than an adolescent fantasy-
But since your dad skipped out, howsabout me as your step-daddy?

Stacey’s mom, she’s got somethin’ goin; on,
Call me slightly sick, but this puppy’s love is strong,
Stacey, I swear she’s blushing bright at me!
Woah, Stace, she’s feverishly flushing, I was wrong,
Sorry Stacey’s mom, this guy’s busy gettin’ gone.

—–

“Barfing on Dad’s old army pants”
(“MacArthur Park” by Richard Harris)

by Doug Jacquier

The bus was never waiting for us, girl
It always left when the driver said
We stayed too late at the dance
It departed and we were depressed
In the closet, hot and stuffy,
Along with Dad’s old army pants.

We barfed there in the dark
All the Coke and pizza flowing down.
Then I had to walk home in the rain
Caught a cold, I can’t shake it,
so next week I can’t make it
Cos I’m locked down with the Covid once again.
Oh, no!
Oh, no
No, no
Oh no!!

—–

“Coronabug”?
(“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham!)

by Deb Whittam

Coronavirus
Coronavirus
Coronavirus
Coronavirus

You put the wheez, wheez into my chest (Cough, cough)
You sent my temperature sky high with your kiss
Social isolation was sending me insane (yeah, yeah)
Guess we were all feeling the same.
But something’s bothering me (ha-ha, ha-ha)
Something ain’t right (ha-ha, ha-ha)
My best friend told me you went out last night (ha-ha, ha-ha)
Left me sleepin’ in my bed (ha-ha, ha-ha)
I was behaving, but you when partying instead (ha-ha)

Wake me up before you go-go
We can still go in pairs, if we lay low
Wake me up before you go-go
I mean I’ll get it from you anyway, ain’t that right?
Wake me up before you go-go
Fever’s not much fun when it’s done solo
Wake me up before you go-go
Covid19 we’ll see you tonight
My fever’s gonna get so high (yeah yeah)

—–

“My Corona”
(“My Sharona” by The Knack)

by Kristian

My Corona
My Corona
Ooh, my little deadly one, a deadly one
OK, at the moment I feel…. Fine, Corona
Ooh, you make my fever run, my fever run
Sweats running off me is that a…… Sign, Corona?

If I don’t ever stop, going out, I’m going out of my mind
I’ll get infected from the touch of the unwashed kind
My, my, my, ay, ay, woah!
M-m-m-my Corona

Don’t Come any closer, huh, ah, don’t ya, huh
Not Close enough to look in my eyes, Corona
Keeping six feet away from me,

or you will see, that everyone dies, Corona
If I don’t ever stop, going out, I’m going out of my mind
I’ll get infected from the touch of the unwashed kind
My, my, my, ay, ay, woah!
M-m-m-my Corona
M-m-m-my Corona
Na, na, na, na, na-na
My Corona
When you gonna get to me, get to me
It is just a matter of….. Time, Corona.

—–

“Lockdown”
(“Downtown” by Petula Clark)

by Bryntin

Now you’re alone and your house isn’t homely
you can always blame – lockdown
when your still in your jimjams and your mouth is all furry
it’s easy to blame – lockdown

just listen to the silence of no traffic in the city
don’t linger on the sidewalk ‘cos the bug’ll get you dicky
happy to booze
the lights are much safer there
you can forget all your troubles, not bother with your hair

because of – lockdown
things will be smelly because – lockdown
no better place for wine – lockdown
you just need a corkscrew

don’t hang around or let your relatives surround you
plenty of movies on Netflix lockdown
maybe you know little places to go to
take your bottles and never close lockdown

just listen to the sirens through the pain of your hangover
you might join in with ’em too before this thing is all over
outside again
your clothes will be tighter there
‘cos you forgot all your diets, forgot all your cares

so go – lockdown
where all the socialites are light – lockdown
TV dinner for one tonight – lockdown
you’ve just got to sit tight now – lockdown

Lockdown…
Lockdown….
Lockdown….
(etc. etc. chorus fades out to a final deathly silence…)

—–

“Yesterday – A Spoof”
(“Yesterday” by The Beatles)

by Trent McDonald

Yesterday
The Covid Virus seemed so far away
Now it looks as if it is here to stay
Oh, I believe in Yesterday

Suddenly
I’m locked inside instead of free
There’s a facemask hanging over me
Oh, yesterday came suddenly

Why I had to hide, locked inside, I couldn’t say
I coughed, is something wrong?!??! Now I long for yesterday!

Yesterday
Meeting friends was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away
Oh, I believe in yesterday

Why I had to hide, locked inside, I couldn’t say
I coughed, Something’s wrong!!!! Now I long for yesterday!

Yesterday
Meeting friends was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away
Oh, I believe in yesterday
MM mm mm mm mm mm

—–

“Black Bird”
(“Blackbird” by The Beatles)

by Matt Snyder

Black bird coughing every day and night

his temperature is high, it’s quite a site

Why oh why. did Covid 19 have to come into your life ?

Black Bird feeling sicker now

huddled in your nest in that big oak tree

Why oh why ? Did Covid 19 have to come in to your life

Black Bird don’t die

Black Bird don’t die

You will break free and you then will see

that Covid 19 won’t be your destiny

Black Bird feeling better now

Normal Body temp every day and night

But boy you gave us a fright

Covid 19 is no longer part of your life

Covid 19 is no longer part of your life

—–

“Nights During Lockdown”
(“Nights in White Satin” by The Moody Blues)

by Geoff LePard

Nights during lockdown
Never seeming to end
I’m being driven
Right round the bend

People I’m missing
Beyond the front door
Another night with the missus
Oh what a bore!

Cos I’ve Covid
Yes I’ve Covid
Oh I’ve got Covid

Gazing at walkers, six feet apart
Distanced by Covid, not by my worst fart
I’ve taken up jogging, I stop for a breath
People dodge round me, I’m exhaling death

And it’s Covid
Yes it’s Covid
Sodding Covid

I think I’ve caught Covid, my breathing’s all manky
Even the dog starts to panic when I gob in my hanky
My hair’s a right mess, my armpits are smelly
There’s nothing else for it, save to blob by the telly

Cos of Covid
Bloody Covid
Effing Covid…

—–

“Sick House”
(“Brick House” by The Commodores)

by Michael Fishman

<Funky bass and drum groove. You know the kind: the one that makes you get up and dance with the window shades open because you don’t care who sees you doing your thing, even if you haven’t worn anything but underwear for the last month.>

Mmm, mmm, mmm…

Oh, it’s a sick house.
He’s just wearing underwear and letting it all hang out.
Ah, it’s a sick house.
Coronavirus, means he can’t go hustle about.

Oh, it’s a sick house.
Those funky symptoms makes her have to quarantine
Yeah, it’s a sick house
Makes her stop and think about her hygiene.

They know they got everything
that a couple needs to ride this thing out.
Toilet paper, wipes and bleach
and 36 pounds of frozen lake trout.

Cause it’s a sick house.
They make a porridge with broth and crushed black beans
in their sick house
cuz they read it cures COVID-19

Oh, it’s a sick house.
Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous breakdown.

Need a mask
and some gloves
and a gown now

Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous breakdown.

Need Purell
Need some bleach
Need Lysol
Gonna bawl now.

Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous breakdown.

—–

“Itty Bitty Virus”
(“Itsy Bitsy Spider” by Mother Goose)

by Ruth Scribbles

The itty bitty virus 🦠
Climbed in the human’s mouth
Down to the lungs
It settled right on in
Up with the cough to
Infect the rest of you
And the itty bitty virus 🦠
Goes round and round the world

—–

“The Corona Splits”?
(Theme from “The Banana Splits“)

by Gary

Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
One infected, two infected, three infected, four.
Four infected make a pandemic and so do many more.
Over hill and highway the corona buggies go
Comin’ on to bring you The Corona Up The Shit Creak Show.
Makin up a mess of life

Makin up a mess of jobs
Lot’s of free time for everyone.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.

Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Four infected, three infected, two infected, one.

All not allowed to play outside in the bright warm sun.
Flippin sick of our leaders, poppin like a cork
Guarding the bog rolls with a Pitch Fork
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.

Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.

—–

“Lots Of It Around” – The Wet Wet Hankie version
(“Love is All Around” by Wet Wet Wet)

by Obbverse

I get snotty fingers when I blow my nose,
Folk are all around me, and so the virus goes,
It’s spitten in the wind whenever my nose blows-
As they glove up and gown me, a gnawing worry grows.

You know I sniffle I always will,
My runny nose’s never been that big a deal,
Its just a sinus infection but I can’t pretend
This cold’s a nasal nightmare, snot without end.

I see your masked face before me as I lie in my bed,
I kinda regret spreading all the things I spread,
Someone gave a dose to me, I gave it on to you,
Now I’m hyperventilating, feelin’ sad ‘n’ lookin’ blue.

—–

“Imagine”
(“Imagine” by John Lennon)

by Ritu Bhathal

Imagine there’s no bog roll
It’s easy if you try
No real tissue to wipe with
Gonna have to air dry
Imagine all the people without a bidet

Imagine no MacDonalds
No Costa, KFC
On no, what will you eat now?
Gonna have to cook your own tea
Imagine all the people raiding ASDA

You may say I’m a dreamer
Actually I’m not, it’s really on
I hope, some day this Coronavirus
Will feck off and just do one

Imagine kids home schooling
Parents trying to teach
Controlling all their offspring
Voices raising to a screech
Imagine all the adults reaching for the gin

Ooh oh ooh

You may say I’m a dreamer
Actually I’m not, it’s really on
I hope, some day this Coronavirus
Will feck off and just do one

—–

“A Whiter Shade of Pale”
(“A Whiter Shade of Pale” by Procol Harum)

by Trifflepudling

I skipped the nightly newscast
Turned cartwheels ‘cross the floor
I was feeling kinda seasick
But still I ate some more.

And the stocks were running lower
As the evenings flew away
So I called up to Just Eeeeat
And the biker brought my trays

And so it was later
As the Miller told his tale
That my face at first just greenish
Turned a whiter shade of pale.

So now my cupboard’s empty
And the truth is plain to see
Just a jar of antipasti
And a plate of frozen peas

I’ll just have to try much harder
Or I’ll bust right through my seams.
And although Joe Wicks is on the telly
My eyes might as well been closed

And so it was later
As the Miller told his tale
That my face at first just greenish
Turned a whiter shade of pale.

—–

Thank you all.

Dumbest Blogger: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.

 

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/27/2020

/ Chel Owens / 16 Comments

♪ Happy Birthday to me… Happy birthday to you! ♫

It’s Birthday Season ’round our place (mine was Monday). Which of our esteemed entrants sang the most terribly?

Untitled piece

by Ruth Scribbles

Spoken:
As we don’t gather
On this day to blather
Let me sweetly remind you
About your place in history

Chant:
You are old
Older than dirt
You are old
Not a little squirt

Sing:
Happy birthday to you
You’re not allowed to boohoo
The virus will leave us
Yippe yay, ha-lle-luuuuuu

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

We had terrible subject, terrible singing, and terrible wishes. I felt Ruth’s song encapsulated just the wrong sort of thing one wants to hear on her birthday anniversary, plus a lovely dusting of lazy lyrics for that extra bad poetry effect.

(I also hope she sings it to her hubby, whose birthday is tomorrow!)

If you’re needing a ‘lift’ for your own birthday, may I recommend any of the following:

Happy birthday, as sung by owls

by Doug Jacquier

Hootie, hootie, hoot, hoot
Hootie, hootie, hoot, hoot
Hootie, hootie, ‘lil owlet
Hootie, hootie, hoot, hoot.

—–

Toilet humour

by Doug Jacquier

Oh, dear, what will we do
We’re singing to you
But you’re not here to hear us
‘Cos you’re locked in the loo.

—–

Farmer’s birthday song

by Doug Jacquier

Happy dirt day to you
It’s raining for you
And now there’s some sunshine
Happy dirt day to you.

—–

Untitled piece

by Matt Snyder

Crappy birther day to you
You smell like one [heck] of a giant half submerged and sticking out of the bowl poo
Crappiest born day dear Mr. Mattttttttttttthhhhhhhhhhhheeeeewwwwww
Crappy birther day
to yooooooooooou
and many more pellets falling out your pants leg
now scurry real fast down to the loo

—–

Untitled piece

by Trent McDonald

Healthy birthday to you!
Sequestered birthday to you!
Virus-free birthday dear Chelsea,
(Hope you have enough TP too!)

—–

That Time of Year

by Fishman

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Have a cake made of frosted honeydew,
Happy Birthday to you.

Your birthday is soon,
(Is your favorite color maroon?)
Enjoy being another year older
Happy Birthday to you.

+ + + + + + + +

Hey, listen up, this is a poem.
So sit down and don’t you roam.
It might be kinda terrible.
But it’s still bearable.
And I’ve only got one.
So it’s not spareable.

So I hope you sat down because I got something to say:
The Terrible Poetry woman is having a birthday.
Is that cool?
Better than a sliced boule?
Tell me, what do you say?
Who doesn’t like birthdays?

I’m guessing that jellyfish don’t like birthdays because they don’t have brains so they wouldn’t even know what a birthday is if they even knew when their birthday was.

So the Terrible Poetry woman needs a present.
But not a pheasant.

(Ants probably don’t like birthdays either because their brains are really small)

Something more pleasant.
Like a flower.
Happy Birthday Terrible Poetry Woman (and to everyone else in the TPW’s house)

—–

Untitled piece

by Gary

How many birthdays you have seen
So many decades since you were a teen
Happy Birthday Dear Has Been
Happy Birthday to me, now sod off and pour me a Jim Beam

—–

Hiccup Birthday

by Peregrine Arc

Happy birthday to thee,
Happy birthday to thee,
You’ll feel better in the morning
After a fifth of Jim Beam’s strategic-flask-pouring…

Hiccup! 🥃

—–

Happy Birthday Chelsea

by Susan Zutautas

Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Chelsea, happy birthday to you.

May you live a thousand years

May you drink a thousand beers

Get plastered you b_st_r_

Happy birthday to you.

Thank you all for your artistic genius this week. Tune in tomorrow if you’d like to play again.

Me

I’m still cute.

Ruth: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:

terrible-poetry-contest

©2020 The poets, and their respective poems.
Photo ©2020 Chelsea Owens

 

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 3/21 – 3/27/2020

/ Chel Owens / 27 Comments

Welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest! I’m here, you’re here; let’s write some bad poetry while we’re passing the time together…

Close your eyes and imagine what sorts of poetry you wrote when you very first felt the muse to verse. Do cliché terms come to mind? Over-used emotions? Predictable lines of rhyme? Perfect. Encapsulate that, and then read the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is birthdays. You all don’t know this, but March and April are our second Christmas around here. Even my birthday is this time of year.
    So, as a birthday gift to me, write a horrible parody of the classic song you sing for someone’s birthday.
  2. The Length will depend on the length of the song you honor.
  3. Songs usually rhyme, so I expect your poem will most likely rhyme as well.
  4. It’s my party, so make it terrible ’cause I want you to. You would cry, too, if I sang, “Happy Birthday to you.”
  5. I’ve got children listening! Keep the Rating a G.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (March 27) to submit a poem.

Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.

If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Drop a comment if you try to link back, and it doesn’t show up within a day.

Eat lots of cake, and have fun!

Me

Yep; that’s me. Aren’t I cute?

Photo © Chelsea Owens

Two Poetic Parodies

/ Chel Owens / 6 Comments

Now I write when I should sleep;
I write so followers I’ll keep.
If I can rhyme before I wake,
Then approbation I will take.

~~~~~

Two souls converged on a bed of wood,
And told each other, “I’m sorry;” both
And; one, rising, sighed with doubt and stood
And looked with as much love as she could
To his messy hair and undergrowth;
Then thought of another, tall and fair,
And how he had tried, her love, to claim,
Because of a black dress she could wear;
Though the dress was gone; pants hung there
Had, to her mind, an effect the same,
And she therefore turned to bed to lay
In satin folds of sheets grey and black.
Oh, if she’d not want another day!
Yet if he’d not shrug; say ’twas her way,
I know he’d not get cold shoulder, back.
I watch and tell ’bout them with a sigh
Somewhere, sometime, and somewhere now hence:
Two souls converged on a bed of wood,
And told each other, “I’m sorry;” both
And that has made all the difference.

 

©2020 Chelsea Owens

And this is why you go to bed at a reasonable time.

Morning Mom is Coming to Town

/ Chel Owens / 26 Comments

You better sit up;
Better open your eyes-
Better get up
‘Fore you get a surprise.
Morning Mom is stomping the ground.

She’s opened your blinds;
Yelled at you twice-
Gonna come give you sched’ling advice.
Morning Mom is starting to frown.

She knew when you weren’t sleeping,
Staying up to read, instead.
And now she’s leaning over you
And her breath could curdle bread.

Oh! You better sit up;
Better open your eyes-
Better get up
‘Fore she brings in the ice.
Morning Mom is layin’ it down…

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Also posted at my motherhood site.

The Darn Sock Connection, a parody

/ Chel Owens / 10 Comments

Why are there so many
Socks in the dish pan?
I think that the boys have lied.

Socks aren’t a weapon;
Aren’t doilies or dishes.
They shouldn’t be balled up or tied.
So boys’ve been scolded; I doubt they
Were list’ning.
Their feet will be cold, wait and see.

One day I’ll miss it:
The clothes never flying;
And dishes, instead of hos’ery.

©2019 Chelsea Owens

WINNER of the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

/ Chel Owens / 19 Comments

And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for: The winner is everyone who entered.

You are all the most terrible poets of the week!

I am amazed, impressed a thousandfold, and speechless. I tried to think of a winner, I truly did. I tried narrowing by rules, by terribleness, by rhyming or not or rhyming not -to no avail.

I think I was simply laughing too hard.

To pick just one among such talent would be to insult the rest. I kid thee not; see for yourself:

Coffee For (In the Style of John Masefield’s “Sea Fever“)

by John S.

I must go down the street again, to the coffeehouse near the Y,
And what I need is a yogurt scone and a grande latte chai;
With a mule’s kick and a banshee song and the white milk that’s shaking,
There’s a grim look on the barista’s face, and the coffee press is breaking.
I must go down the street again, for a caffé mocha, iced.
It’s 2 pm on a Wednesday, this cannot be denied;
And here it is a promotions day with the caramel clouds flying,
And soccer moms with their matcha green, and the frappuccinos vying.
I must go down the street again, this vagrant caffeine strife,
For the blended way and the fruit juice way where the drink is a whetted knife;
And all I ask is an espresso shot that keeps me stone cold sober,
And doubly-steeped herbal mango tea or a smoothie I could go for.

—–

Stopping by woods on a snowy evening

by Bruce Goodman

Whose woods these are I have no clue.
And if truth be known, nor do you.
It’s sheltered enough for me to hop off my gig
And stretch the legs for a minute or two.

My little horse must think I’m queer
To stop with no pub in sight and no beer
With snow all over the place
In the middle of nowhere.

The woods are lovely, so to speak,
And you might think I’m some sort of creep,
But there’s miles to go before I‘ll get another chance to stop for a leak,
But there’s miles to go before I‘ll get another chance to stop for a leak.

—–

Zodiac Killer (from Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales“)

by H.R.R. Gorman

1 One derke and tempestuous Aprill night,
2 The shirreve clutched his herte in awful fright.
3 The licour of woman’s veynes bathed walls,
4 And with blodde the Ram of spring marked the halles.
5 The shirreve sees drawen to memorie
6 Another mordre with sign of Pisces,
7 Capricornne brot a deth most treasonous,
8 And dede man drowned, sign of Aquarius.
9 He seche and he trowe evidence,
10 But the Zodiac killer’s japed him since.
11 The shirreeve made many pilgrimages
12 To question witnesses in low corages
13 And find preve of the killer’s vileynye
14 To bring him to justise thurgh agonie.
15 Nonne can descrive circumstances of deth,
16 And all cry out hevynesse through bated breeth.
17 Upon giving up and laying to snoose,
18 He at last trowed the killer was Ted Cruz.

—–

The Agent (Based on Edgar Alan Poe, “The Raven“)

by Trent P. McDonald

Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered how to write my query
To sell my quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I edited typos and participles hanging, suddenly there came a clanging
As of some one harshly banging, banging at my apartment door
“’Tis the landlord,” I sputtered, “clanking at my apartment door –
I better hide since my cash is no more.”

Ah, I wish I could remember, was it May or December?
And each separate rejected note lied crumpled on the floor
How I dreaded the marrow: – I’d have to pay back the cash I did borrow
And not selling my book caused me sorry – sorrow for “The Art of the Bore”-
For that bit of putrid fiction had that name “The Art of the Bore”-
A stupid name evermore

-a bunch of skipped verses…-

“Please don’t’ let that word be our parting, my pretend friend,” I shrieked, embarrassingly
“Please read my manuscript, it’s not a Plutonium store!
See what my black plume has transcribed, as my soul has spoken!
Don’t leave me lonely and broken – take it with you out my door!
Take this bleak writing of my heart, take the my book, no matter how poor!
Quoth the Agent “Nevermore”

—–

“If” (Or When The Truth Finally Dawns)

by Geoff

If you can fly a drone yet not drone on about that skill
And capture some celebs’ nips, for your Insta feed to fill;

If you can face the surgeon’s knife and also find the wedge
To have your gender altered, adding meat and two root veg;

If you can make an online bet, and keep on loss on loss
And find some time for other games and still not give a toss;

If you can change allegiance from Arsenal to Spurs
And face the chants of ‘traitor’ and some witch’s paid-for curse;

If you can hold the notion, that your MPs moral compass
Is still intact when it’s bloody plain he’s just a cheating short-arse;

If you can read the dailies and absorb a constant diet
Of fake news and propaganda, yet still you want to buy it;

If you can be a vegan yet not let veganing be your master
Adopt a healthy lifestyle, yet let blue pills make you harder;

If you control the TV remote to the manor born
And pass your nights with sport and paid-for Scandi-porn;

If passing days in a sweaty haze of gyms and protein shakes
Let’s you think that guns and tucked in tums are all it really takes;

If you can drink your weight in beer, and finish with a curry
Wake up drunk, go to work and still not think to worry;

If you can take on a lifetime’s debt, for a poxy little degree
And never think that you’ve been had then I’m sure you will agree,

That you’ve won life’s lottery and you’ve proved that you’re a man
And really don’t you think, you dick, that it’s time that you began

To realise that the world is sick and everything that’s in it
Should now be run by women, so that maybe they can fix it.

—–

Cousin MacDuncan

by Doug

The Witches:
All hail, Duncan, Bane of Craw
Whence camest thou, worthy Prince?

From the castle I sayeth.
Pray tell, I am needeth
the spell of Puxogt, my birthright:
stir the pot to bestow the incantations
that you’d wilt the will of nature
doth have me know the words
though be it darkest magic I demand.
Giveth I say the boil, the power
as foretold in the prophesy.

Witches:
Beware the idles of auto-carraiges.
Though many knights save their seats
against rebellion and lavish treachery
speak quickly in tragedy before the second stab.

But I had not known the puzzle of the boils.
And thus in folly, all was thought well
though the traitors lurked in hatred of the Priestess.

I was to escort Her Sacredness to her doom the raff assumed
’twas twisted chicanery looming as explosive as the petard.

We’d gone in a convoy, but with a bomb
the doors of Her car were blown off

An evil twenty swarmed out
from fields of Sunflowers tall
knives redoubtable

They tied Her Sacredness to a fence
gagged her that She’d not reproach them:
their scabbards empty of their treachery

Such evil drawn out
upon the dastardly ceremony
that hides a scoundrel from a conscience

“Kill her,” I heard the tall one bade.
“Righteous tyranny of the Gods
“can NOT be malice when obeyed

“Let the least of us wound,
“the greatest stab Her in the heart,
“the fearful give the coup de grâce.”

Villains, villains, I shouted.

Halt at once this vileness,
these sneezed speeches
a phlegm of your diseased souls

A frenzied one spoke:
Her Sacredness
would fawn to the Council
and not to the Gods

She would banish our Sister
who champions the Gods

This impostor usurper
who takes the crown
would deny our true Priestess
her enfranchisement with the Gods

Let the Gods rightly
paint our true Priestess in
the light of Their Love, and
make her star brighter than
the day of this puny planet’s sun.

Hasten us all
lest we’d be interfered with
in our noble cause to
stab out the usurper

Draw now the blood of Her Falseness,
each of you in turn do act:
stab out this blotch

Sazrgk, begin!

But I crawled closer,
picked up rocks to throw

Thus I:
Sazrgk no! You of the least
do not now promote yourself to fiend

Let them have their honors.
Sazrgk, if you’d save your soul
take your mercy and go

But Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder.
’tis true: of weakness cold-hearted, he
did indeed plunge his dagger.

I screamed the ancient kinesis:
“T’ukmpuxogt!”

I became splattered in red screams
drowning in oceans of slaughter that
pulled me out of my mind with
a fury that engulfed the sun, and
made it set in vomit

By T’ukmpuxogt bold
the sunflowers were decapitated
in exploding shards of skull, and
headless bodies were
strewn across the road.

Thus I protect my Love
the only true Priestess.

—–

Dog, Be Not Proud (Parody of “Death be not proud” by John Donne)

by Peregrine Arc

Dog, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost stinky by
Die not, poor human, nor yet canst the dog’s Flatuence kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy doggy dreams be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow from thy waggily tail
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their noses, and soul’s too early delivery.
Thou’art slave to smell, poo, gas, and dead things,
And dost with poison, gas, and sulphur dwell,
And skunk ‘or carcass can make us smell as well
And better than thy fumes; why smellest thou then?
One short stink past, we breathe eternally,
And doggy gas shall be no more; doggy, thou shalt go poo.

—–

Will I Sweat a Sweet Summer’s Day? (Based on Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18)

by Doug

Indeed I’d liken thee to a hot intemperate day.
Thy art work hangs on the wall by the bed:
In the heat and torrents of Summer’s bray
The painting warps ‘n tilts though glee outspreads

Though furies of heaven are too hot tempered to tame
And often the sea would rush in with scorn
A perfect day fickled with clouds that disclaim
A Nature’s bearded willow teased forlorn

But thou art hotter than the Sun
An eternal fire of thy soul consumes not;
Thy burning bush still fertile not done
Nor will death retrieve heat God wot:
One summer’s day none can tame
As there’d be forever one dame.

—–

Starlight (“Tyger” by William Blake)

by Ruth Scribbles

Starlight Starlight oh so, bright,
I wish I may, I wish I might
Actually sleep tonight?
Why the hell do you light up my room?

My wings are frail
My hands are weak
Do you dare to tweak
My heart?

You are evil, yes indeed
Your light in my eyes
Makes me need
My sunglasses at night

What are you thinking
You bright dim wit?
Shining on my terrors
So I see my errors?

The clouds the clouds
Will dim your light
And hide you and my fright
In the middle of the night

Starlight Starlight oh so, bright,
I wish I may, I wish I might
Actually sleep tonight?
Hell lights up my room?

—–

Bukowski (“Bluebird” by Charles Bukowski)

by Violet Lentz

bukowski said,,
he had a bluebird
in his heart….
he said,
he tried
to drown it
in cheap whiskey-
to smother it
in the smoke,
of a myriad
of hand rolled
cigarettes.. yet,
in the end,
he told us,
he knew,
that it was there.
and he knew-
it was a bluebird…

still i wonder,
just how deep
he had to sink
into the quagmire
of his own
scarred psyche-
how many nights
he had to lay awake
staring into
the cold, black,
eyes of self-
before he heard
that single blessed note…
before it broke thru.
before it rose above
the mire of
life’s melancholy
melody…and when it did-

when at last,
it broke thru,
his delusion distilled,
and for the first time
he held it close
late at night
in the dark
when no one else
was around-

was it then
that he realized
it was never
really a bluebird
that he was trying
to drown
in cheap whiskey
or to smother
in the fog
of yet another
hand rolled cigarette?
was it then
that he realized
it was never
really a bluebird
that he desired
to hold ever so tightly
to himself
as he drifted
off to sleep
listening to
the bittersweet song
that only he
could hear
alone, in the dark
when no one else
could see?

and if it was then,
did he weep?
i for one
believe he did….

—–

Untitled piece (also Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18″)

by Nakedinfiniverse

You’re as hot as I get when I win a race,
You’re pretty and you’re always sober.
Gales blow petals all over the place –
it’s like, as soon’s you blink summer’s over.
One minute I’m sweatin’ like a goat,
The next the weather goes all cloudy;
You always need to take a coat
‘Cos accidents and nature make stuff dowdy.
But your beauty will always and forever stay,
And they’ll never take you from the sunshine.
You won’t even die, ‘cos you will stay
Alive thanks to this pretty rhyme;
As long as there’s still people around,
My poem will hold you on the ground.

—–

Marvelous, fantastic, amazing, marginally-terrible work! Tune in tomorrow for next week’s prompt.

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Everyone: 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

/ Chel Owens / 87 Comments

Good day, fellow poets. May I be the first to welcome you to The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest? You, sir or madam or sidam, are attendant to the 21st iteration of this most-anticipated event.

Now! Sit back, relax, and don those thinking caps. We also advise those participating to drop a few, stingy rules at the door. Yes, you may leave your senses of meter and form there as well. If necessary, here is a general guideline to which you may reference.

Ready? Excellent! The following are the rules for this week:

  1. The Topic is Making Sport of Classic Poetry. You, like many, have heard of creatures stirring, woods with diverging paths, gentle nights, and captains (O, Captains!). Well –nevermore!
    • Pick a popular poem, and have at it! We’re talking parody, satire, and silliness. Go where your nausea of repetition leads you.
    • As a final note, the judge and readers will follow your ramblings with slightly more understanding if you note which work you choose.
  2. The Length will depend on the poem you mock. If you choose Beowulf, however, please keep it to the first page.
    Also, please limit your number of submissions to three. Those of you who are really good at this game are making the rest of us look bad.
  3. If the one you mock rhymes, you Rhyme. Or, not. You’d be surprised how casual the judge is.
  4. Moste importantely, make it terrible. The poem’s original author must feel compelled –no- SUMMONED by the chantings of those who read your parody aloud to drag themselves from the grave (or desk, if still alive) to seek you out and haunt you every Sunday afternoon before supper.
  5. Keep things PG-13 or nicer. Sometimes my kids read over my shoulder.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (April 12) to submit a poem.

If you are shy, use the form. Leave me a comment saying that you did as well, just to be certain. 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!

 

 

 

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If you need further inspiration, please reference “Everlore,” and the newsletter I made my family suffer through in December.

 

Photo credit:
Roman Kraft