Oh Oh oh the climate Is it changing yet? Yes yes it is my friend yes I don’t know if this is eleven syllables Or twelve, the climate, climate, climate, climate, climate Climate, climate, climate, climate, climate, climate, climate, cli- mate (x whatever the next prime number is) Climate climate…..
Congratulations, Ordinary Person! You are the most terrible poet this month! Let me know what theme and form we’re to use next time.
The entries this time around were fantastically terrible. You’ve all done an awful job and I couldn’t be more proud. O.P.’s efforts stood out for boldly breaking form into repeating the dumbest part of his verse. His is certainly not the cleverest (whoever said that was the name of this contest?) but is quite bad.
All the rest were my second choice, losing only by a hair. Read, and enjoy:
it never just rains torrential downpours galore FLOODS and MUDSLIDES and the sunken cars so deep
temperature pushes 70 in the North East Snow, snow I get but it’s not snowing; it’s raining raining & raining drip, drip, pitter, patter, whoosh whoosh whoosh, welcome to SPRINTER, not winter nor Spring Is not normal people really, not normal: now I have to urinate really bad
Toast to the Newlyweds: Climate Change and the Flat Earth
Gee Can you see? The living tree. On fire Me. Just a bird on a wire Half asleep. Flying backwards and so dreaming of forests long ago Looking below. At another time. Branches to climb. Cut down in their prime.
The bunyip’s a legend in Australia, terrifying one and all. A cross between emu and crocodile, or a furry seal with terrible eyes and sharp teeth, it preys on those unwary folk who stray near rivers and deep billabongs venting its fury, like a giant platypus consuming an early lunch.
(Can’t post pics here unfortunately but you can see the products of some fervid imaginations if you search for ‘Bunyip pics’ in your browser.)
Earth ֍ Mother ֍ Stick ‘em up! ֍ Gim’me all you got! ֍ Take, take, take, without a thought. ֍ Hands off the entire lot, it’s bloody well mine! ֍ I don’t care, leave it scorched, barren and beyond repair. ֍ In my rocketship, I’ll climb, leaving Mother Earth behind — Ciao suckas!!!
An iceberg breaks off of Antarctica like a star that the sky couldn’t keep for herself, too weighted with water and gas, leaving a hole sized like Greater London, but, good news, “Not climate change,” the scientists say. But there’s other reason for alarm.
Sweat Slimy Steamy land Storms wild, childlike Strength of nasty temps, up/down Scientists mumble, stumble, profess the doom Stir up word muck throwing – blankets piled or skin removed Stay in the know, let the wind blow, whatever rocks your boat, I know right?
Thank you, terrible poets. Head over here in March to see what the next prompt is!
Nitin: Here’s your slightly-inaccurate badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:
Cli mate change My soul cries While my Tesla dies And my reusable shop ping bags blow away and I watch them all stran gle a seagull, with a leg trapped in my organic free range non-GMO hand-picked renewable-source cotton sweater vest. and socks. But I still cry for those magnificent eagles of the garbage.
Theme and Form The theme is climate change. The form is a syllabic poem in praise of Prime Numbers: 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 11,13, etc. This means your first line with have one syllable; the second will have two; the third, three; the fourth, five; etc.
Length I’m not sure how long you can keep priming your numbers, so that sounds like the length is up to your tenacity.
Rhyme? Up to you!
Terrible! Scientists predict an unusual rise in terribleness, followed by scattered storms of painful prose.
Rating Is the perfect storm that risqué? I’m sure Geoff’s good with wherever the wind takes you on this one.
You have till 8:00 a.m. MST on Thursday, January 26 to submit a poem.
Use the form below if you want to be anonymous until I post the results. The form hasn’t saved what you submitted unless you see a message saying it has.
Or, for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please alert me if your pingback or poem does not show up within a day.
The winner gains bragging rights, a badge, and the pick of next contest’s theme and form.
Between Dasher and Dancer and Prancer lay the victim, Of all Santa holds deer, why had the killer picked him? This had been no close call- There was blood all over his stall.
Rudolph, the aforesaid reindeer Was Santa’s snitch, everybody knows, And everyone in the herd who saw it Saw Rudy had the brownest nose.
All of the Brother reindeer Used to laugh and call Rude names, They chose and froze out Rudolph From joining their Sled Pullers Union aims.
Then one foggy Christmas eve Santa dropped by his spy to say ‘Rudolph, if I heard your story right This Union mob ain’t haulin’ my sled tonight.’
That’s when all the reindeer kicked him, They kicked Rudy all about with glee, If you spill secrets to Santa I fear You’ll star in your own Christmessy murder mystery.
Congratulations? Obbverse! You are the most terrible caroler! If you’re comfortable doing so, shoot me an e-mail and I’ll send you your present!
Unlike other terrible poetry contests, the Christmas one is all about a distinct aspect that stands out -no matter how much the poet pokes fun at tropes, cliches, etc. Obbverse wrote a very clever, terrible (as in, wrong) song; so, hey! He wins!
Winner or ‘winner,’ poetry or ‘poetry,’ this is my favorite contest of all. I hope you enjoy reading them all:
San-ta! You’ll never get my pony in your sack. San-ta! It’s only gonna break your back. Why don-cha ride upon it in-stead? Why, it could even pull your sled!
San-ta! You better take a diff-rent tack! San-ta! I’m tellin’ ya a sure-fire hack! Send it via US mail, Then your back it will not fail. San-ta! You’ll never get my pony in that sack! San-ta! You’ll never get my pony in that sack! (ad lib and fade)
Silent cholesterol, stealthy cholesterol. Chocolates and cream make things digestible Around the table the family has sat Eating the turkey and getting quite fat. I’m really huffing and puffing Trying to finish this stuffing.
Silent cholesterol, stealthy cholesterol. It will make your heart arrestable. Eat lots of butter, eat lots of cake, Pig out on pies and nice pastry flake. Like the turkey I’m totally stuffed. Yet I can’t say that I’ve had enough.
O, Climate Change (Sung to the tune of O Christmas tree)
Hey, you down there, yes, you, chewing your gum. I see you down there and stop sucking your thumb. What gift did you bring for me? Stop scratching your bum*! To thank me for being kind and not telling your Mum About sucking your thumb And scratching your bum? Is that all you brought, just a packet of gum? Telling your Mum!
*Australian slang for backside, not a US king of the road type bum.
On the twelfth day of Christmas My girlfriend gave to me Twelve budgie smugglers* Eleven crafted beers Ten shower gels Nine armpit anti-smells Eight shirts for wearing Seven barbie* tools Six steaks for sizzling Five onion rings Four kanga bangers* Three chicken kebabs Two token salads And a bar fridge near the gum tree!
*Budgie smugglers – men’s underwear *Barbie – barbecue *Kanga bangers – Sausages made from kangaroo meat
Untitled, To the tune of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas”
Smashing Through Your Door On A One Seat Open Fork An Employee Of Yours Driving Like A Dork Bells On Our Phones Ring Spirits Not So Bright Your Roller Door Is On The Floor And You Can’t Go Home Tonight The Door People The Door People Please Come And Fix Our Door 8445 8445 Great Service That’s For Sure The Door People The Door People Will Save You Once Again 8445 8445 You’ll Consider Us Your Friend
Dashing through the snow, In our brand-new electric car. Is there any way to know, If it will carry us as far As we really need to go. The blinking red light gleams On the panel made of glass Might be trouble, so it seems Sure wish we stuck with gas.
He wish you a merry Christ-ish; She wish you a nearly Christ-ish; We wish you a leery Christ-ish but maybe we’ll be safe with, “Happy Holidays.” Right pronouns we sing to you and your furbabies; They wish you a cheery Christ-ish -Oh- pleasant whatevs!
Un chapeaux, Maman, schandmantel; Un champignon, quand je ne parle pas français. C’est une poème; qui sait que je chante?, “‘Bébés’ commencent par b,” chante Chel. Ah! Ah! Ah! que la mer a swells. Ah! Ah! Ah! que chocolat est delicious.
A year or five, I know: A diet I will try. I’m sure to get real slight – Or, at least see my backside. But, wait! There’s a half-shank, And, here’s a choc’late box; A loaf that I could spank! Hm. Maybe I might not…
Oh, mingled smells, tingles well; Pringles all the day! Oh, how fun it is to glut And not care how I weigh! Swingled cells, Kris Kringle’s swell; Single’s on the way. Oh, how tasty is this schmutt Who’ll never waste away!
Said the husband as she burnt the ham Do you smell what I smell? (Do you smell what I smell?) It’s charred, it’s charred; the oven’s all alight With the men here to fi’re fight With the men, here, to fi’re fight...
All hope’s gone, all is lost. She loves me, she loves me nost. I gave her flowers. a sort of red. They had thorns, so she bled Out. Now she’s a gost…
Congratulations, TanGental! You are the most terrible poet this month! Let me know what theme and form we’re to use next time.
You may be wondering how I chose a winner out of such excellent entries. I’ll tell you: I don’t know. I’m also wondering how I picked, given that most entries tied for cleverness and included some distinctive element. I believe the winner won me over with that broken/continued line of ‘bled/out’ and with his terrible word choice.
Again; that’s not to say one should only read the winning entry. Peruse all the poetry, below, and see which is your favorite:
There once was a man from Straya As a walker he was a fair dinkum stayer Went past the Black Stump and beyond it Got lost, fell into a billabong, it Was a shame his swimming was a failure.
Glossary Straya – rendition of ‘Australia’ by many Australians, similar to Americans who live in ‘Mecca’ Fair dinkum – genuine Black Stump – mythical far distant place where civilisation ends (along with American spelling) and the unknown begins Billabong – an isolated pond left behind after a river changes course
Write a clean limerick, they promptly said! But I’ve found clean limericks are rarely read, A limerick ploughs common ground, Within limericks innuendoes abound, Something gets lost if cheeks ain’t left red.