What’s cheesier than a Vermont Cheddar? This month’s terrible poetry contest, of course! Matt, last time’s winner, suggested we write a limerick about the dairy product in question, and here are the winners:
Vermont Cheddar Cheese was such a sleaze Wheezed, seized, breezed, he’s enough to make one weak at the knees Eyeing him disdainfully did nothing to ease The fears his presence could not appease Here, grab the skis and the keys, I’ll disappear into the trees.
He was a good old egg who liked to gamble, He never stopped talking, oh how he rambled. One nasty night he lost his shirt. He got drunk. He fell in the dirt. Now he’s a good old egg Who’s somewhat broken and completely scrambled.
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Congratulations, DA and seahorsecoffeeelektra79018! You are the most terrible poets this month! We’re taking a summer sabbatical until September; but you’re both welcome to tell me a theme and form for next time, in the comments.
For the record, I’m going to sound like a broken record: all contestants did TERRIBLY. (I mean, that is the point of the contest, right?) I read over all the poems, snickered, read them again, snickered again, then could NOT decide who to crown as victor. DA and shce#’s contributions won by a hair -and, I realized, the same level of hair. I loved DA’s incessant rhyming and broken form; I loved sea’s broken form and mostly-rhyme. Plus, as was with all the submissions, they were terrible.
What a way to end (for now) on a high note! Enjoy reading:
I pondered on this tasteless topic blankly… Because Vermont Cheddar stinks, and rankly, There is the ripe question Of long lingering indigestion, I’d rather Brie or Philadelphia, frankly.
There once was a cheesy old cheddar who never got under the weather. (pronounce this “wedder”) Vermont Cheddar’s the name of long-standing good fame since tomorrow it tastes even better. (pronounce this “bedder”)
There once was a brave little cheddar Who thought it was oh so much better Than gouda or brie Then it started to sneeze For tickled it was with a feather
Her breath smelled like Vermont cheddar cheese, so when she said, “Boy, won’t you come kiss me please.” I just squeezed shut my sniffer and dreamed of Aniston, you know, Jennifer, and gave her lips a soft gentle squeeze.
I’ve decided to give up cheese especially Vermont Cheddar cheese Why? What do you know about life? Isn’t it full of strife? I hate you Vermont Cheddar Cheese.
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A Stupid and Completely Fictious Story About Cheese, Jews, and Halachic Process
There once was a new kind of cheese Where the protein was made out of peas. The rabbis said, “No way!? (whey?) Is this really okay?!? To decide, we must use our rabbinic degrees.”
But the rabbis disliked intellectual work, So they banned it, like they did Impossible Pork. “We think banning is better – Besides, this tastes like Vermont Cheddar, And we prefer cheeses made in New York.”
Then came Shavuot holiday Chief rabbi ate dairy all night and all day. He produced so much gas And hot air from his ass, The chief rabbi up and floated away!
The rabbis said, “As much as we do not want, To admit our Head Rabbi was intolerant Of milk, lactose, and whey, Guess we’ll say it’s ok To eat that weird vegan cheese from Vermont!”
From Vermont came a cheddar, behold Legend has it, one heck of a mold Big cheese curd not forstall The coming Woodchuck brawl. For a chance to taste Green Mountain gold.
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Thank you, terrible poets. Maybe come back in September to see what the next prompt is!
Deb and seahorse: Here’s your slightly-inaccurate badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:
Hello, there. Welcome to the Terrible Poetry Contest for May, 2023. This will be the last contest before the host (presumably) resumes operations in September.
Haven’t heard about our esteemed ‘competition’ before? Read this post. We’re out to make-fun, but also have fun!
M won March’s contest. Here are the parameters he named for this month:
Theme and Form Rest easy, guys. We’re doing a limerick about Vermont Cheddar Cheese. We’ve done limericks before, many times. A description of the form can be found at this link.
Length Unlike cheddar, a limerick doesn’t take long. It’s five lines in anapestic trimeter.
Rhyme? Cheese with ease, and rhyme the lines of AABBA this time.
Terrible? Aging is an art, one applied best to solid dairy products one spreads on crackers. Terrible poetry, not so much. Make yours as tasteless as you’d like.
Rating M didn’t say one, but I’m guessing he’s fine with anything. Anything, you hear? It is a limerick, after all…
You have till 8:00 a.m. MST on Thursday, May 25 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 cheesier 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.
Meow Face, funny face, red face, yellow face, black face😽 All of me, paw me😼 Found humor, in human race as I embrace Meow Face, funny face, red face, yellow face, black face😽 Mad face, glad face, sad face stare you down with my debase face 😾 Arrogance I guarantee Meow Face, funny face, red face, yellow face, black face😽 All of me, paw me😼
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Congratulations, M! You are the most terrible poet this month! Let me know what theme and form we’re to use next time (which will be the last before my usual summer sabbatical).
In fact, congratulations to all. The triolet form was tricky to write terribly within. It’s a tribute to your skill that no poem stood out to me; I read through several times and grew increasingly pickier in order to name a winner. M’s entry took a clever direction in coming from your ever-adorable online cat.
Believe you me, these are all worth reading:
How many cultures can I offend today? Hmm, let me try…
Do you like my new kerchief? Made by a Buddhist, Rasta Hippy African rhythms by colonial thief Do you like my new kerchief? Native dances, grizzly bear teeth Hindu symbols appear quite trippy Do you like my new kerchief? Made by a Buddhist, Rasta Hippy
Amidst general farnarkerling, a fair maiden did set her sights on a ring a’sparkling, amidst general farnarkerling. Full of feckless fancy flights that sometimes sounded barkling, she swore to tie the knot with a man in tights. Amidst general farnarkerling, a fair maiden did set her sights.
Lo, this handsome Visigoth, known as Necro Mancy, and to him she vowed to plight her troth. Lo, this handsome Visigoth, She checked he was not of the cloth and found he was a prince so fancy Lo, this handsome Visigoth, known as Necro Mancy.
The handsome prince, with heart a’loudly pounding, now without her he could not forebore so sent to her a messenger with a sounding, the handsome prince, with heart a’loudly pounding. He waited for her reply, with his teeth a’grounding and the very ground he did paw, the handsome prince, with heart a’loudly pounding, now without her he could not forebore.
The maiden shed a seemly tear or two then gave herself to Necro Mancy. And they did quaff a beer or two and the maiden shed a seemly tear or two. Necro did down a scotch and more than just a few and then spoke in tongues all romancey The maiden shed a seemly tear or two then gave herself to Necro Mancy.
I didn’t grab your culture, dear. I simply ate your tasty rice. In spite of how it might appear I didn’t grab your culture, dear. So, stop the whining. Drop the sneer. Forget I said the rice was nice. I didn’t grab your culture, dear. I simply ate your tasty rice.
Us colonists gave so much to the First Nations And yet they remain ungrateful for all this? We came, we saw, we made evaluations, Us colonials gave so much to the First Nations, Trinkets, reservations, blankets, flu, free inoculations, Scarlet fever, filter tips, firearms, fire-water, syphilis, Us colonists gave so much to the first nations And yet they remain ungrateful for all of this?
I’m no longer a loyal Harley-Davidson fan, I’m appropriating a big red Indian Chief,* My l’il Low Rider don’t befit a big ol’ American, I’m no longer a loyal Harley-Davidson fan- Found my big numb behind no longer can Hardly sit on its seat without Prep H relief, I’m no longer a loyal Harley-Davidson fan, I’m appropriating a big red Indian Chief.
* Yes, that is the name of a model in the Indian lineup. Brav- bold choice.
Speak now, or forever hold your peace The preacher shouted at them They said a triolet not a niece Speak now, or forever hold your peace iambi who? Does it cook in grease amphibriaric drum the dumb drum Speak now, or forever hold your peace The preacher shouted at them
Aah wah aah wah wah a warriors hum, Back and forth the tomahawk chop. Warpaint, feather headdress, and drum, Aah wah aah wah wah a warriors hum, From what century did you come? Ratta tat tat tat, make it stop! Aah wah aah wah wah a warriors hum, Back and forth the tomahawk chop.
Welcome [Welcome! Welcome!] to the Terrible Poetry Contest for March, 2023.
This contest is simple: make fun of the serious poetry out there as much as you like. I’ve written some helpful guidance here or, as always, suggest copying the instructions for using a toothpick -but space out the lines so it looks intentionally poetic.
Now, onto the prompt! Ordinary Person won last month’s contest. Here’s what he suggested for this month:
Theme and Form “[T]he form I’ve chosen is a triolet and the theme is …cultural appropriation.” Triolet is eight lines of poetry that follow a specific pattern -not just a rhyming pattern, but that of repeated lines as well. According to Wikipedia, “The rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB (capital letters represent lines repeated verbatim) and often in 19th century English triolets all lines are in iambic tetrameter, though in traditional French triolets, from the 17th century on, the second, sixth and eighth lines tend to be iambic trimeters followed by one amphibrachic foot each.” Here’s your chance to choose Anglophilia or Francophilia…
Length I believe we’ve covered that. We’ve done just that. We’ve covered that. We’ve done just that.
Rhyme? See the line(s), above.
Terrible? Hey man, you go ahead and poem like somebody else. Dress in that lowercase existentialism. Talk like a bard. Jam as only a Rastafarian can. In the end, it’s individualism what brings cultural appropriation to life.
Rating PG.
You have till 8:00 a.m. MST on Thursday, March 30 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 culturally-appropriate 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.
She’d staked a claim in life; gritted her teeth and determined to see it through -no matter what. Oh; she’d been told it would be hard. She’d been told it might be harrowing, even: love, loss, stress, disease, fatigue…
Trials made her more obstinate.
Potential challenges brought out the strongest of stubborn resolve.
She was bound -BOUND, I tell you!- to succeed where others had failed.
And yet, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling -after adulthood brought more of the grind of monotony than seemingly insurmountable obstacles- that grit had very little to do with life, after all.
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
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Toast to the Newlyweds: Climate Change and the Flat Earth
One (1) and two (2) then comes three, (3) but climate change we (5) all can see rhymes much worse than (7) flat earth memes promoting free verse poetry. (11)
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.)
DOOM Oh Man DOOM Rain sleet floods pontoons A burning inferno gloom Where the hell is that air conditioned cold room? TV on. Current affairs? Climate change? Dumb buffoons.
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?
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.
But, we’re not here to unwrap presents! We’re here to read who won the terrible Christmas carol parody for the Terrible Poetry Contest of Christmas 2022!!
Rudolph The Blood Nose Reindeer. (The Mike Hammer/film noir version.)
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.
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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.
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O, Climate Change (Sung to the tune of O Christmas tree)
Butter on hot toast And bacon a sizzlin’ Coffee pot perkin’ And drippin’ and drizzlin’ When my morning starts out with caloric flings I’m thankful for some of my favorite things
Biscuits and gravy And fritters and donuts Are all so tasty They just make me go nuts Of pancakes and waffles and syrups I sing For these are just some of my favorite things
There’s leftover lasagna And pizza in fridges And hot dogs and burgers And Ruffles with ridges Chocolate chip cookies from the oven they bring Food is just some of my favorite things
When my doc nags About my weight It kinda makes me sad It’s then I remember my favorite things And I don’t care if I’m fat
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.
Everybody stops and stares at me My two teeth are STILL HERE- oh say can you see? I don’t know who’s at fault for this catastrophe But my one wish on Christmas Eve is as plain as can be
All I want for Christmas is my two teeth OUT My two teeth out See my two front teeth Gee, if I could only have my two teeth OUT Then I’ll be the object of your pouting.
It’is ya no “THAT” time of year Left o’er, cheese starts; smelling Eeryone yelling ” Yo!!! We ran outta beer” the crap, crappiest, season ya, know
Wid those h’Omoerotic feelings and slaphappy greetings. When fiends bring they’re damn kids who start to ball it’s the crap crappiest seesawing ya know
dippers need changing fur nature rearranging and wheel we wish you a crappy Christmas a Slap Happy Christmas and a scrappy News year
Now take your squeeling kids stinky limburger sordid thoughts and don’t come back unless you bring us a case of beer Marry Chris Mouse !!!!
The official length is as long as it takes you to poke fun at your carol before running out of ideas…
Jingle bells, Batman smells; most songs rhyme so rhyme this time (if the original rhymes).
Good King Wenceslas looked about, rocking around the Christmas tree, away in a manger of parody. Make us laugh, make us cry; mostly, give us something to look forward to this year.
Finally, keep things child-appropriate. Christmas is about children, after all.
You have till 8:00 p.m. MST on Friday, December 23 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 a physical Christmas gift in the mail from Chel.
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...
Chel Owens 