BS: More Bad Poetry

Subject: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 07 Aug 03 - 07:40 PM

Here's another marvelous bad poem from William McGonagall which I feel you people should not have to live without any longer...read it and weep!

THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL
by William McGonagall

It was biting cold, and the falling snow,
Which filled a poor little match girl's heart with woe,
Who was bareheaded and barefooted, as she went along the street,
Crying, "Who'll buy my matches? for I want pennies to buy some meat!"

When she left home she had slippers on;
But, alas! poor child, now they were gone.
For she lost both of them while hurrying across the street,
Out of the way of two carriages which were near by her feet.

So the little girl went on, while the snow fell thick and fast;
And the child's heart felt cold and downcast,
For nobody had bought any matchea that day,
Which filled her little mind with grief and dismay.

Alas! she was hungry and shivering with cold;
So in a corner between two houses she made bold
To take shelter from the violent storm.
Poor little waif! wishing to herself she'd never been born.

And she grew colder and colder, and feared to go home
For fear of her father beating her; and she felt woe-begone
Because she could carry home no pennies to buy bread,
And to go home without pennies she was in dread.

The large flakes of snow covered her ringlets of fair hair;
While the passers-by for her had no care,
As they hurried along to their homes at a quick pace,
While the cold wind blew in the match girl's face.

As night wore on her hands were numb with cold,
And no longer her strength could her uphold,
When an idea into her little head came:
She'd strike a match and warm her hands at the flame.

And she lighted the match, and it burned brightly,
And it helped to fill her heart with glee;
And she thought she was sitting at a stove very grand;
But, alas! she was found dead, with a match in her hand!

Her body was found half-covered with snow,
And as the people gazed thereon their hearts were full of woe;
And many present let fall a burning tear
Because she was found dead on the last night of the year,

In that mighty city of London, wherein is plenty of gold -
But, alas! their charity towards street waifs is rather cold.
But I hope the match girl's in Heaven, beside her Saviour dear,
A bright reward for all the hardships she suffered here.


---------------------------------------------

You can read this "Poetic Gem" online at

http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/poems/mpgmatch.htm

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 07 Aug 03 - 08:17 PM

Sure...but why?


A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Rapparee
Date: 07 Aug 03 - 09:40 PM

LH, that is without a doubt the single most touching poem I have ever read. That poor child, all alone, the sole support of her aged father, the cruel and heartless world rushing past her -- you'd think that someone would have taken her into a brothel or something. It has made me see match girls in a totally different light, and the next time I see one standing on a corner in the snow I'll buy all her matches!

Bill Shatner himself could do no more.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: mack/misophist
Date: 07 Aug 03 - 09:57 PM

I'm not as easily taken as Rapaire. No matches for me unless she's barefoot. Bah, humbug!

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Padre
Date: 07 Aug 03 - 10:31 PM

For a truly 'wonderful' compendium of bad poetry, take a look at
"The Stuffed Owl" edited by D.B. Wyndham Lewis and Charles Lee. It includes much by McGonagall and Julia A. Moore, 'The sweet singer of Michigan.'[Here's a sample of her work]

'Tis said that Brigham Young is dead,
The man with nineteen wives;
The greatest Mormon of the West
Is dead, no more to rise.
He left behind his nineteen wives
Forsaken and forlorn;
The papers state his death was caused
By eating too much green corn.

Padre

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Rapparee
Date: 07 Aug 03 - 10:32 PM

McGonagall, I will concede, was pretty good as a bad poet, but he was from the UK. But can he touch America's own Julia Moore?

    THE GREAT CHICAGO FIRE

    The great Chicago Fire, friends,
         Will never be forgot;
    In the history of Chicago
         It will remain a darken spot.
    It was a dreadful horrid sight
         To see that City in flames;
    But no human aid could save it,
         For all skill was tried in vain.

    In the year of 1871,
         In October on the 8th,
    The people in that City, then
         Was full of life, and great.
    Less than four days it lay in ruins,
         That garden City, so great
    Lay smouldering in ashes,
         In a sad and pitiful state.

    It was a sad, sad scene indeed,
         To see the fire arise,
    And hear the crackling of the flames
         As it almost reached the skies,
    And sadder still, to hear the moans,
         Of people in the flames
    Cry for help, and none could get,
         Ah, die where they remained.

    To see the people run for life;
         Up and down the blazing streets,
    To find then, their escape cut off
         By the fiery flaming sheets,
    And others hunting for some friend
         That perhaps they never found,
    Such weeping, wailing, never was known,
         For a thousands miles around.

    Some people were very wealthy
         On the morning of the 10th.
    But at the close of the evening,
         Was poor, but felt content,
    Glad to escape from harm with life
         With friends they loved so well,
    Some will try to gain more wisdom,
         By the sad sight they beheld.

    Five thousand people were homeless,
         Sad wanderers in the streets,
    With no shelter to cover them,
         And no food had they to eat.
    They wandered down by the lake side,
         Lay down on the cold damp ground,
    So tired and weary and homeless,
         So the rich, the poor, was found.

    Mothers with dear little infants,
         Some clinging to the breast.
    People of every description
         All laid down there to rest,
    With the sky as their covering,
         Ah, pillows they had none.
    Sad, oh sad, it must have been,
         For those poor homeless ones.

    Neighboring Cities sent comfort,
         To the poor lone helpless ones,
    And God will not forget them
         In all the years to come.
    Now the City of Chicago
         Is built up anew once more,
    And may it never be visited
         With such a great fire no more.

I'd mention Nancy Luce, also, but I can't find a complete poem by her. Which is probably just as well.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: JennyO
Date: 07 Aug 03 - 11:12 PM

No time to find it now, but we have someone in our fair city, who without a doubt writes the worst poetry in the world - worse even than Vogon poetry. And she recites it! Think chalk scraping across a blackboard - pure torture, folks! Sandra would know who I am talking about :-)

Jenny

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 02:22 AM

Boy that Julia Moore!! What a powerful sense of ineptitude!!

A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Micca
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 04:15 AM

I was Lucky enough to find a 2nd hand copy of " the Stuffed Owl" a few years ago and it has provided me with many happy hours of agony!! seek it out you enjoyer of strange and BAD verse, it is a treasury of the awfule, wrought with great skill.
As a Taster can you guess which later famous poet penned these immortal lines in his youth?
" The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,
Dim,cloudy,sunk beneath the western wave
Th'inconstant blasthowl'd thro'the darkening air
and hollow whistled in the rocky cave...

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,
The clouds, swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky;
The groaning trees untimelyshed their locks
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: greg stephens
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 07:24 AM

A pure guess, but might it be the immortal Robbie Burns before he became born-again Scottish?

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Micca
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 09:09 AM

Spot on Greg!! and fairly appalling stuff it is too!!

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 05:08 PM

Julia Moore might be a mangler of words, but by Jove she has rythmn!

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Rapparee
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 05:59 PM

And by Jove! she knew cricket!! She is not known as "The Sweet Singer of Michigan" for naught, you know.


GRAND RAPIDS CRICKET CLUB

In Grand Rapids is a handsome club,
    Of men that cricket play,
As fine a set of skillful men
    That can their skill display.
They are the champions of the West,
    They think they are quite fine,
They've won a hundred honors well;
    It is their most cunning design.

Brave Kelso, he's considered great,
    Chief of the club he is found;
Great crowds he draws to see him bowl
    The ball upon the ground.
And Mr. Follet is very brave,
    A lighter player than the rest,
He got struck severe at the fair ground
    For which he took a rest.

When Mr. Dennis does well play,
    His courage is full great,
And accidents to him occur,
    But not much, though, of late.
This ball play is a dangerous game,
    Brave knights to play it though;
Those boys would be the nation's pride,
    If they to war would go.

From Milwaukee their club did come,
    With thoughts of skill at play,
But beat they was, and then went home --
    Had nothing more to say.
Grand Rapids club that cricket play,
    Will soon be known afar,
Much prouder do the members stand,
    Like many a noble star.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 08:14 PM

I'm sorry but this is just sheer brutality. How has such drivel even survived the birth process? If a human being were born in such torment, it would be a monster, surely!


A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Rapparee
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 08:27 PM

Worse than writing "Too whit, too woo" as Keats did?

Worse than Byron's "Don Jew-on"?

Worse than Tennyson's eagle, who "crasps the crag with crooked claws"?

Worse than the crap I wrote in college? Oh, surely not!

Amos, Amos, you are only looking at the surface of this poetry. You must dive under and plumb the immeasurable depths of the poet's soul to truly understand. Antideconstructivedadaistic postmodern criticism will show you The Path and render your mind receptive to The Truth. For "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty/This is all you know and all you need to know."

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 08:50 PM

Well, if that be so -- and who better to say it is? -- than Julia Moore is the biggest liar ever to grace the foul shores of Michigan.

A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Alba
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 09:17 PM

Now is this Julia Moore really Julianne Moore the Actress...cause she's a tad better at the Acting thingy than the.....poetry!!
Brutal is indeed the word Amos. Reading it is a subtle form of Torture in fact....."Of Men that Cricket play" LOL
Oh how silly I was to believe that William Topaz Mc Gonnagal was the ultimate author of bad poetry!
JD

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Rapparee
Date: 08 Aug 03 - 09:56 PM

Alas and alack! Julia A. Moore departed to that Vale from which there is no return in 1920.

But for bad poety, read Nancy Luce's stuff about her chickens.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 09 Aug 03 - 01:32 AM

"Of men that cricket play"???? Oh! Oh! Spectacular!!! I fear that Mr McGonagall has some VERY stiff competition out there and risks being dethroned as worst major poet of all time.

Now if we could just get William Shatner to launch a brand new career in poetry to match his peerless efforts in acting and singing....THEN you'd see something! Yes indeedy. A-a-a-a-lllll righty, then!

Good of you to mention antideconstructivedadaistic postmodern criticism, Rapaire. It is a subject that has barely been touched upon on Mudcat Cafe, and it is only through such criticism that artistic work on the level of masters like McGonagall, Moore, and Shatner can truly be appreciated.

You know, Yoda kind of talks the way Miss Moore writes...

Interesting.

- LH

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 09 Aug 03 - 02:21 AM

BE AFRAID...

BE VERY AFRAID ...

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: greg stephens
Date: 09 Aug 03 - 03:39 AM

That cricket poem was interesting.Leaving aside the quality of the verse, I am interested that someone was writing a poem hymning local cricket players in America. Living as we now do in the shadow of Big Macs and George Bushes, I am bound to ask where did it all go wrong? Here is conclusive evidence that there used to be vestiges of culture in the late colonies. Has it all been wiped out, or are there still any pockets of resistance, still twenty two men in white flannels somewhere in Michigan forming a pitiful but brave nucleus round which a civilised nation could be reborn?

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: alanabit
Date: 09 Aug 03 - 07:17 AM

Thanks Rapaire and Little Hawk. I hope nobody EVER finds any of my own attempts at poetry, but I don't feel quite so bad about it now.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Rapparee
Date: 09 Aug 03 - 10:26 AM

As much as we might like to think that such poetry is behind us, the author of this died in 1981.

Oh, God, who made the summer
And warmed the earth with beauty,
Warm our hearts with gratitude
And devotion to our duty.

Fortunately, that's all of that. She did, however, write an estimated 2 million others. (That's TWO MILLION: 2,000,000.)

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 09 Aug 03 - 12:14 PM

Good point, Greg. At least back when Moore and McGonagall were penning their awkward lines there was a measure of idealism, dignity, and culture from which they could draw inspiration.

Now compare their efforts to the contemporary garbage our senses are assaulted with, such as this epic piece of crap from none other than "Puff Daddy"....

Artist: Craig Mack
Album: Project - Funk Da World
Song:   Flava In Ya Ear

"Yo Mack, I don't even UNDERSTAND how they didn't understand you in
that Mary joint!"
       "Yeah, I know, man."
       "Kick that ol' robotic, futuristic, George Jetson, CRAZY JOINT!!"

Just...like... Uniblab, robotic kickin' flab
My flavor be the badder
chitter-chatter
Madder than the Mad Hatter (1)
I bet you my shit come out fatter
got the data
to turn your body into antimatter (2) {...body into antimatter...}
And just like a piece of sizzlean
you'll fit inside my stomach
with the eggs and grits between {...take 'em down, Mack...}
The King is what I mean
I mean
my man get a cup
and put some change inside your hand {...take 'em down, Mack...}
Now hold up,
let's make this official {...make it official}
everybody let's agree that M.C.'s need a tissue {..wake 'em up}
The funk's my only issue,
I bet your mama miss you
and I bet the Mack take off like an M.X. missile
No more of your whining
on the charts climbing
as I make the funk
kickin' out more harder than a diamond {...harder than a diamond}
And if you didn't know who's rhyming
I guess I'm gonna say Craig Mack
with perfect timing

..you won't be around next year
My rap's too severe, kickin' mad flava in ya ear {...KICK IT DOWN!}

CHORUS:
Here comes the brand new flava in ya ear
                {...brand new flava in ya ear...}
[time for new flava in ya ear]
               
I'm kickin' new flava in ya ear

[Mack's the brand new flava in ya ear...]

Craig Mack
1000 degrees
You'll be on your knees
and you'll be burnin', beggin' please
Brother FREEZE! {BOY!...}
Man's indisputed
and deep-booted
funk smoke that leaves your brains booted
This bad M.C.
with stamina like Bruce Jenner(3)
the winner
Tasting M.C.'s for dinner
You're crazy like that glue {...you're crazy, boy, You're crazy.}
to think that you
could out-do
my one-two
that's sick like the flu {...shake 'em down, Mack}
BOY, I flip
BOY all the time, 'cause
BOY, the rhyme you're kickin' {HAAAAAAAAA! BOY!...}
ain't worth a dime
Seems like there's no competition
in this rap world expedition
You come around,
I'll knock you out [of] position {... knock 'em out!}
No flav
could ever dig a grave
for the Mack
the power pack
in black
makin' cement crack {...make it crack...}

..and here comes the brand new flava in ya ear
Mack's the brand new flava in ya ear

Here comes the brand new flava in ya ear
                {Here- comes- the- brand- new- flavor-...
[time for new flava in ya ear]
                ...in- your- ear...         
I'm kickin' new flava in ya ear
                ...BOY!!!}
[Mack's the brand new flava in ya ear...]
                {Flavor down...}
Here comes the brand new flava in ya ear
                {Flavor, Flavor, here comes the flavor}
[time for new flava in ya ear]

I'm kickin' new flava in ya ear

[Mack's the brand new flava in ya ear...]
                {Flavor in ya ear, boy...}

HAAAAAAA!
The Mack's dope
With more hope than your Pope
but for M.C.'s more knots than rope
I'd like to break it down
down-breakin'
forsaken
lords of M.C.'s shakin
with this track that my man's makin'
M.C.'s will run like a bomb threat
I bet          {what?}
or better yet   {huh?}
make you sweat
Gettin' hotter than the sun get {yup!}
Craig Mack is the flav that romps
from here to Tibet    {BOY!}
I break all rules
with my action
that the Mack sends
to M.C.'s stop relaxin'
This brand new Sherrif that's in town's
gettin' down
leavin' bodies buried in the ground {...rest in peace...}
I set up rhymes for a decoy
To off a bad boy       {OOOhhhh!}
Watch the M.C.'s I destroy and.... {BOY!!}

Here comes the brand new flava in ya ear
                {time for new flavor...
[time for new flava in ya ear]
                                       ...fla-VOR!!}
I'm kickin' new flava in ya ear
                {time for the flav...
[Mack's the brand new flava in ya ear...]
                      ...boy, here come the Mack}
Here comes the brand new flava in ya ear
                {HAAAAAA!...
[time for new flava in ya ear]
             ...wakin' up with flavor!!}
I'm kickin' brand new flava in ya ear

[Mack's the brand new flava in ya ear...]
                {HAAAAAAAA!...BOY...}


MAN! Doesn't it just make you long for the days of Moore & McGonagall again?

- LH

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 09 Aug 03 - 12:34 PM

No, it doesn't; but it makes me want to call the ASPCA to round up some loose animals.

A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: alanabit
Date: 09 Aug 03 - 12:35 PM

You have just reminded me what it is that I like so much about radios - they have OFF switches.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Sandra in Sydney
Date: 10 Aug 03 - 10:00 AM

Our local bad poet (mentioned above by JennyO) hasn't been seen much recently (hoooooray), let alone heard (even better). The poor bugger can't write poetry, recite or sing & does all 3 unless avoided. However she can dance, but won't go to the dances & leave singing sessions alone, which is why the formerly public session now takes place in singers' homes strictly by invitation only.

Her Opus was written on a Student pad (folscap size with margin on the right) - every line filled the width of the page & had a rhyming word on the end. It was the saga of every festival she had attended in the past ? years, with all persons named & if a person was present she would nod at them with a big smile & await their nod before continuing. The last line of the poem said the poem was ending cos the paper had run out.

Unfortunately I can't (won't) get a copy of this epic for your consideration as she might think I want her to do a floor spot at the club (& anyway I avoid her like the plague). She is completely unaware that her presence is unwanted as she has no boundaries & never shuts up.

snadra

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Willie-O
Date: 10 Aug 03 - 11:13 AM

See: the Times of India, for some reason is taking an interest in McGonagall.

But surely McGonagall's crowning effort is his two-part series, first celebrating the unparalleled engineering achievement of the Railway Bridge On the River Tay, then, a year or so later, lamenting its disastrous downfall.

Any poem that, even a hundred years later, can bring an entire audience to rolling-in-the-aisles tears of laughter at the description of a tragedy that cost ninety innocent lives, is something special under the sun, which will be remembered for a very long time! I think the metre is unsuited to solemnity.

The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers' hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o'er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale
How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 10 Aug 03 - 11:29 AM

My god. I find it difficult to believe writers of this standard are allowed into the world. When livestock is this deformed it gets shot at birth.

A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Rapparee
Date: 10 Aug 03 - 11:50 AM

Well, Julia Moore wrote

    ASHTABULA DISASTER
    AIR -- "Gently Down the Stream of Time"

    Have you heard of the dreadful fate
          Of Mr. P. P. Bliss and wife?
    Of their death I will relate,
          And also others lost their life;
    Ashtabula Bridge disaster,
          Where so many people died
    Without a thought that destruction
         Would plunge them 'neath the wheel of tide.

    CHORUS:

          Swiftly passed the engine's call,
                Hastening souls on to death,
          Warning not one of them all;
                It brought despair right and left.

    Among the ruins are many friends,
          Crushed to death amidst the roar;
    On one thread all may depend,
          And hope they've reached the other shore.
    P. P. Bliss showed great devotion
          To his faithful wife, his pride,
    When he saw that she must perish,
          He died a martyr by her side.

    P. P. Bliss went home above --
          Left all friends, earth and fame,
    To rest in God's holy love;
          Left on earth his work and name.
    The people love his work by numbers,
          It is read by great and small,
    He by it will be remembered,
          He has left it for us all.

    His good name from time to time
          Will rise on land and sea;
    It is known in distant climes,
          Let it echo wide and free.
    One good man among the number,
          Found sweet rest in a short time,
    His weary soul may sweetly slumber
          Within the vale, heaven sublime.

    Destruction lay on every side,
          Confusion, fire and despair;
    No help, no hope, so they died,
          Two hundred people over there.
    Many ties was there broken,
          Many a heart was filled with pain,
    Each one left a little token,
          For above they live again.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: GUEST,Ms Penelope Rutledge
Date: 10 Aug 03 - 12:52 PM

'Tis a great pity that Miss Moore and Mr McGonagall never met, for they surely would have been smitten with one another and together have formed the most memorable poetic union of ALL time! (giggle)

We used to read McGonagall's tortured epics in the drawing room on special occasions, like New Year's, and all laugh uproariously. "The Tay Bridge Disaster" remains our favourite, and is probably his "greatest" work, if you know what I mean...

Now I am indebted to Mudcat Cafe for providing the good folk of Twillingsgate with the key to a whole new library of dreadful poetry to be read on festive occasions. How wonderful! Julia Moore is definitely as wretchedly bad a poet as McGonagall, and she delivers a fresh North American twist to the genre of really bad poetry from that great age when train moguls still vied for supremacy across the rugged expanses of the American West and Americans still played cricket. What a grand time it must have been!

The interesting thing is, McGonagall and Moore have probably brought more mirth and enjoyment to the human race than the top 50 serious "good" poets of the last 300 years...and that is no small accomplishment in its own way, is it? Perhaps that is why they had the fortitude to persist despite a conspicuous lack of talent. Heavenly guidance, my friends! The Wind of God was at their backs.

Now, I think this thread deserves a contribution from one of my most persistent suitors, who referred to himself as "Ever Madly (In Love With You)" or just "E.M.". I haven't heard from him in a few months now. I suspect he has either given it up at last (one hopes)...or thrown himself off a railway bridge (he threatened to on several occasions)...but...his poetry stands for all time:

Ode to Ms Rutledge

Penelope Rutledge, O Vision sublime!
I think of you often, and wish you were mine
I think of you tripping down library stairs
The sun on your bonnet, the wind in your hair
No melody bright could express all you are
No vision of light and no heavenly star
No sunrise at dawn could encompass your grace
No vista at twilight could e'er match your face
I sit in my room and envision you now
The queen of my conscience, the wave at my bow
My ships are all stranded, now wretched they pine
No sails on their yardarms, no grapes on my vine
My vineyards are barren, my cats have no mice
My parrot has sought therapeutic advice
My hallway is empty, my phone's on the fritz
Penelope Rutledge, I love you to bits!
My hopes they are waning, as silent I wait
Intolerably distant from fair Twillingsgate
If not for thy grace I would plunge from the skies
As an albatross falls to his final demise
Yet hope springs anew with each stroke of my pen
That my words may yet sway you, and move you, and then
That together at last we may write history
With me beside you, dear, and you beside me
Penelope Rutledge, O Vision sublime!
I think of you often, and wish you were mine

E. M.

I can never read it without collapsing into helpless laughter. The part about the parrot is particularly moving, but I think it is the man, not the bird, who is in need of "therapeutic advice"! Oh my! (getting short of breath here...)

He is though somewhat better a poet, technically speaking, than either Moore or Mcgonagall.

* PR

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 10 Aug 03 - 01:50 PM

I think we should perhaps extend our firmament to include another American star, more polished but no less crude in his sentiments, Edgar Guest, who penned the scintillating sentiment, "it takers a heap of living to make a house a home....".

His remarks on his father are a prime example:

What Father Knows



My father knows the proper way
The nation should be run;
He tells us children every day
Just what should now be done.
He knows the way to fix the trusts,
He has a simple plan;
But if the furnace needs repairs
We have to hire a man.

My father, in a day or two,
Could land big thieves in jail;
There's nothing that he cannot do,
He knows no word like "fail."
"Our confidence" he would restore,
Of that there is no doubt;
But if there is a chair to mend
We have to send it out.

All public questions that arise
He settles on the spot;
He waits not till the tumult dies,
But grabs it while its hot.
In matters of finance he can
Tell Congress what to do;
But, O, he finds it hard to meet
His bills as they fall due.

It almost makes him sick to read
The things law-makers say;
Why, father's just the man they need;
He never goes astray.
All wars he'd very quickly end,
As fast as I can write it;
But when a neighbor starts a fuss
'Tis mother has to fight it.

In conversation father can
Do many wondrous things;
He's built upon a wiser plan
Than presidents or kings.
He knows the ins and outs of each
And every deep transaction;
We look to him for theories,
But look to ma for action.


Regards,


A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 10 Aug 03 - 01:58 PM

Few people realize that Edgar Guest was a gift to the United States from England, his natal town being Birmingham. This may explain how he acheives the ...unequalled mastery of the language he exhibits in his deeply sentimental "working man" poetry:


Only a Dad

              1 Only a dad with a tired face,
              2 Coming home from the daily race,
              3 Bringing little of gold or fame
              4 To show how well he has played the game;
              5 But glad in his heart that his own rejoice
              6 To see him come and to hear his voice.

              7 Only a dad with a brood of four,
              8 One of ten million men or more
              9 Plodding along in the daily strife,
            10 Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,
            11 With never a whimper of pain or hate,
            12 For the sake of those who at home await.

            13 Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
            14 Merely one of the surging crowd,
            15 Toiling, striving from day to day,
            16 Facing whatever may come his way,
            17 Silent whenever the harsh condemn,
            18 And bearing it all for the love of them.

            19 Only a dad but he gives his all,
            20 To smooth the way for his children small,
            21 Doing with courage stern and grim
            22 The deeds that his father did for him.
            23 This is the line that for him I pen:
            24 Only a dad, but the best of men.

Makes you proud to be a bourgeois, don't it?


A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 10 Aug 03 - 03:49 PM

That stuff is so relentlessly middle-class that it just squeaks.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Alba
Date: 08 Jul 06 - 03:19 PM

Anyone found anymore good "bad" poetry lately?
Someone had mentioned Edgar Guest to me the other Evening and I recalled that Amos had mentioned Mr. Guest in a Thread a while ago this one obviously..:)

Best to All as always
Jude

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: GUEST,Poet extrordinaire
Date: 08 Jul 06 - 05:34 PM

The cuckoo is a pretty bird,
As she sits in the grass.
With her wings by her side
and her head....under them.
And in this position,
She can only say "Twit"!
For who could say cuckoo
with a beak full of feathers?

perhaps to align with another thread I ought to re-write some of the lines:-

And in this position,
She can only say twite.
For who could say cuckoo
With a beak full of feathers

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 08 Jul 06 - 06:55 PM

Boy and His Dog
Edgar Guest

A boy and his dog make a glorious pair:
No better friendship is found anywhere,
For they talk and they walk and they run and they play,
And they have their deep secrets for many a day;
And that boy has a comrade who thinks and who feels,
Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels.

He may go where he will and his dog will be there,
May revel in mud and his dog will not care;
Faithful he'll stay for the slightest command
And bark with delight at the touch of his hand;
Oh, he owns a treasure which nobody steals,
Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels.

No other can lure him away from his side;
He's proof against riches and station and pride;
Fine dress does not charm him, and flattery's breath
Is lost on the dog, for he's faithful to death;
He sees the great soul which the body conceals--
Oh, it's great to be young with a dog at your heels!

(Another sample of the Pure American SPirit personified by Mister Guest in his pedestrian rhyming).

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Alba
Date: 08 Jul 06 - 08:14 PM

That was the very Poem being talked about Amos..lol.
Terribly..bad/good...oh you know what I mean.

Have to add another Poem then from Scotland's own, William Topaz Mc Gonagall, who still is up there in the top 5 World's worst as far as I am concerned.

The Village of Tayport and its Surroundings

The Village of Tayport and its Surroundings
All ye pleasure-seekers, where'er ye be,
I pray ye all be advised by me,
Go and visit Tayport on the banks o' the Tay,
And there ye can spend a pleasant holiday.

The village and its surroundings are magnificent to be seen,
And the shops on the High Street are tidy and clean,
And the goods, I'm sure, would please the Queen,
They cannot be surpassed in Edinburgh or Aberdeen.

And the villagers' gardens are lovely to be seen,
There sweet flowers grow and gooseberries green.
And the fragrant air will make you feel gay
While viewing the scenery there on the banks of the Tay.

Scotscraig is an ancient and a most charming spot,
And once seen by visitors will never be forgot.
'Twas there that Archbishop Sharp lived long ago,
And the flower-garden there is a very grand show.

The flower beds there are very beautiful to see,
They surpass the Baxter Park flower beds in Dundee,
And are all enclosed in a round ring,
And there the bee and the butterfly are often on the wing.

Scotscraig farm-house is magnificent to see
With its beautiful rich fields of wheat and barley,
And the farm-house steading is certainly very fine,
And the scenery is charming in the summer time.

The Serpentine Walk is a secluded spot in Scotscraig wood,
And to be walking there 'twould do one's heart good.
There the lovers can enjoy themselves in its shady bowers
By telling tales of love to wile away the tedious hours.

There innocent rabbits do sport and play
During the livelong summer day
Amongst the ivy and shrubberies green,
And screened all day from the sun's sheen.

Then, lovers of the picturesque, off and away
To the village of Tayport on the banks o' the Tay,
And ramble through Scotscraig wood,
It will, I'm sure, do your bodies good.

And, as ye walk along the Serpentine Walk,
With each other ye can have a social talk,
And ye will hear the birds singing away,
Which will make your hearts feel light and gay.

And while walking underneath the branches of the trees,
Ye will hear the humming of the bees.
Therefore, pleasure-seekers, make no delay,
But visit Scotscraig wood on a fine summer day.

There visitors can be shaded from the sun in the summer time,
While walking along the secluded Serpentine,
By the spreading branches of the big trees,
Or from the undergrowth ivy, if they please.

Do not forget to visit the old Tower,
Where Archbishop Sharp spent many an hour,
Viewing the beautiful scenery for miles away
Along the bonnie banks o' the silvery Tay.

Gag!...heehee

Jude

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 08 Jul 06 - 10:22 PM

What is the perverse streak in our makeup
Which causes us, uniformly to want to break up
In laughter loud and full of derision
When reading poetry of such poor erudtion?

It could be that it makes feel much better
To think such rhymes are writ by men of letters
For we can sense thy are tawdry and inferior
And know such poets need not feel superior.

A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: LadyJean
Date: 08 Jul 06 - 10:55 PM

It was Edgar A. Guest who wrote that he wanted to "Live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man."
I'm not sure if the story is apocryphal or not, but a little girl is supposed to have said that, like Mr. Guest, she wanted to live in a house by the side of the road and be friendly to men.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Sandra in Sydney
Date: 09 Jul 06 - 04:07 AM

according to on of the Bad Poetry sites I googled sometime back, this is worse than McG's efforts! I love it.

Written by Theophilus Marzials, a Pre-Raphaelite poet, in 1874

...............

A Tragedy
Theophilus Marzials


    Death!
    Plop.

The barges down in the river flop.

    Flop, plop.

    Above, beneath.

From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,
As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,
Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly
To the oozy waters, that lounge and flop
On the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,
As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.

    Plop, plop.

    And scudding by

The boatmen call out hoy! and hey!
All is running water and sky,

    And my head shrieks -- "Stop,"
    And my heart shrieks -- "Die."

*          *          *          *          *
My thought is running out of my head;
My love is running out of my heart,
My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,
For my life runs after to catch them -- and fled
They all are every one! -- and I stand, and start,
At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,
On the barges that flop
                              And dizzy me dead.
I might reel and drop.
                                                Plop.
                                                Dead.

And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top
                           Flop, plop.
*          *          *          *          *
A curse on him.
                            Ugh! yet I knew -- I knew --
If a woman is false can a friend be true?
It was only a lie from beginning to end --

    My Devil -- My "Friend"

I had trusted the whole of my living to!

    Ugh; and I knew!

       Ugh!

    So what do I care,

And my head is empty as air --

    I can do,
    I can dare,

    (Plop, plop
    The barges flop
    Drip drop.)

       I can dare! I can dare!

And let myself all run away with my head
And stop.

    Drop.
    Dead.

    Plop, flop.

    Plop.

.............
The following note is from the person who posted it on their Bad Poetry site

[-- from The Gallery of Pigeons (1874) ]

Note: I've tried to reproduce the indentations of the original edition above, but at the cost of finding extra spaces between many of the lines. The only blank lines in the first printing come just before "And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree top" and before the last line.

Marzials is clearly a precursor of Sylvia Plath. "Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly" could be a line from The Colossus, and can we not hear "Lady Lazarus" behind Marzials' lines "So what do I care, / And my head is as empty as air -- / I can do, / I can dare ..."?

-- Seamus Cooney, 7/17/99

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Bunnahabhain
Date: 09 Jul 06 - 07:30 AM

Those are wonderful. The hynm of praise to Dundee is plain wrong on so many levels it defies belief.

To digress for a brief moment. I have to diasgree with Mrs Penolope Rutlidge. There have been some poets who have brought more enjoyment than these stars of Bad verse. W.S Gilbert for a start, and some more serious ones as well......

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 09 Jul 06 - 08:34 PM

Perhaps Penelope was speaking a bit tongue in cheek.

Quite a thrill to read all these splendid verses again!

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: The Sandman
Date: 10 Jul 06 - 11:55 AM

What a shame Mcgonigle didnt meet and marry julia a moore ,think of all those hilariously funny poets they could have produced.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: The Sandman
Date: 10 Jul 06 - 12:22 PM

might I bring to your attention. The Book of a Thousand Songs by Cumberland Clark, ideal if your constipated . here,s My England
    England, my England
    How shall I sing thy praise
    Shall I cleave the skies
    With a hymn that cries
    The gloryof thy days
    Shall singing break
    The vows men make
    To serve a will not thine
    Shall I bowed down
    By thy stern frown
    Proclaim thy cause is mine

    England, my England
    Endless,thy wondrous deeds.
    My praise shall be
    To work with thee
    Sowing more fruitful seeds
    Seeds that shall yield
    In every field
    Fruit for that hidden store
    That keepsthee strong
    To journey long
    To heights ne,er reached before

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: The Sandman
Date: 10 Jul 06 - 01:50 PM

That breakfast feeling
      Whenever Im late in the morning
      I get in a feverish mood,
      I hastily rush my adorning,
      and look with a scowl on my food

   My chin I have cut with my razor
Icertainly dont look the best
   I cant find my red and black blazer
So have to come down in my vest

The fat of the bacons congealing
The toast is all dabby and cold
I glance from my toast to the ceiling
and rudely the paper unfold

What i see increases my ire
i havent won two thousand pounds
My paper i pitch in the fire
And my rage through the crackle resounds

The moralof this is a warning
To always get up when you wake
The temper and time in the morning
You lose, you will not overtake

Cumberland Clark again, not quite as dire as Mcgonigle , BUT FAIRLY BAD.Dick Miles

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: The Sandman
Date: 10 Jul 06 - 03:00 PM

New Guinea.
    New Guinea is an island shared
    Between the powers, formerly
    Of Britain,HollandGermany,
Until the latter war declared.

   The Britsh part named Papua
   The Queensland Government annexed
   And Home Authorities perplexed,
   Who had not wished to go so far.

   But other nations would indeed
   Have seized the coastline otherwise
   So Whitehall opened sleepy eyes
   And a protectorate decreed

The year that young Australia
   Was granted federal government
She,with the motherlands consent
Took full control of Papua

   When war by Germany was fanned
   And spread through countries east and west
Australians from the Germans Wrest
   Their portion,Kaiser Wilhelms land

    The League of Nationshave decreed,
Under their own express mandate
    The commonwealth shall rule the state
Till native rulers can succeed.

Now this offering by CUMBERLAND CLARK is truly in the Mcgonigle class.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 11 Jul 06 - 02:27 AM

We went to call for Mary Jane,
My brother Bill and me.
We walked her to the local woods,
Laid down behind a tree.
We took off her shirt,
We took off her bra,
We took off her shoes
And took off her jeans.
Then we both gave her
A plate of Heinz beans.

Good advert for Heinz products eh?

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: The Sandman
Date: 11 Jul 06 - 07:05 AM

Here is Spain by C CLARK
   In the South West of Europe,s the Kingdom of Spain,
   Where good southernblood permeates every vein.
The people are passionate loving and warm;
And impromptu affection,s considered good form
    All the dear pretty girls carry on so,
And im sorry theyve turned down Alfonso
       REFRAIN
   I went to a bullfight one night
   With a sprigthly young girl from Madrid
   We,d alovely front seat
   And my joy was complete
   Till in the arena I slid
   The picador cried, very friendly,[ Look out the Bulls coming old    chap}.
And as sure as im born the bull stuck his horn
On a part where i dont wear a cap.

One sees on the north side the famed Pyrenees
there are more knees than these that the traveller sees
The country produces most excellent wine
I sampled adrop and found it divine
I have no space to tell what the trade is
But the principal port is old Cadiz.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 11 Jul 06 - 09:47 AM

C. CLark -- if he is still alive -- should be taken out and shot
For promulgating as poetic so much that is really not.
I wouldn't mind overseeing his well-deserved booting
And might even be willing to implement the required shooting.

A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: The Sandman
Date: 11 Jul 06 - 06:32 PM

yes, well said Amos

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Dave Hanson
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 02:48 AM

Epitaph, From Aberdeen.

Here lies the body of Elizabeth Charlotte,
Born a virgin, died a harlot,
A virgin still at seventeen,
A remarkable thing for Aberdeen.

eric

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: The Sandman
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 11:45 AM

FIJI
If you want to go to Fiji
You dont go on a geegee
You have to go by water all the way
Theres nobody Iknow there,
SoI dont want to go there,
Although ,its very pleasant,Idare say
      REFRAIN

To reach the Fiji Isles,
You travel many miles.
Youll find the vegetation
Is quite a revelation
Theres bread fruit and sultanas,
And,yes,they have bananas
Sugar cane and maize and rice,
Awfully good and low in price.
If you require a change of scene on the south Pacific track,
Its nice to go to Fiji, but its nicer when your back.

The Islands are volcanic.
But theres no need for panic;
Its very seldom now you get a shock
But the natives there lor lummy
Are very ,very rummy;
They have the sort of face that stops a clock.

More drivel from Cumberland Clark

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 12:17 PM

Pretty impressive stuff. Clark and McGonagall were apparently in a dead heat when it came to churning out mindless sycophantic ramblings about the glories of the British Empire.

McGonagall once journeyed on foot to Queen Victoria's country estate, hoping to present her personally with some poems he'd written in praise of the illustrious monarch. The staff turned him away at the gate. It must have been a crushing moment for Victoria's most ardent fan and subject!

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Alba
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 12:21 PM

Oh Yes, well said Amos..!!.
Captain Birdseye...you have presented some fine examples.

I feel however the need to share yet another Gem from my fellow Countryman, William Topaz Mc Gonagall, who decided to pen his feelings regarding.......I will leave it to the Reader as I thinketh you will catcheth his drifteth...**smile**:

A Tribute to Mr Murphy and the Blue Ribbon Army

ALL hail to Mr Murphy, he is a hero brave,
That has crossed the mighty Atlantic wave,
For what purpose let me pause and think-
I answer, to warn the people not to taste strong drink.

And, I'm sure, if they take his advice, they never will rue
The day they joined the Blue Ribbon Army in the year 1882;
And I hope to their colours they will always prove true,
And shout, Hurrah ! for Mr Murphy and the Ribbon of Blue.

What is strong drink? Let me think-- I answer 'tis a thing
From whence the majority of evils spring,
And causes many a fireside with boisterous talk to ring,
And leaves behind it a deadly sting.

Some people do say it is good when taken in moderation,
But, when taken to excess, it leads to tribulation,
Also to starvation and loss of reputation,
Likewise your eternal soul's damnation.

The drunkard, he says he can't give it up,
For I must confess temptation's in the cup;
But he wishes to God it was banished from the land,
While he holds the cup in his trembling hand.

And he exclaims in the agony of his soul --
Oh, God, I cannot myself control
From this most accurs'd cup!
Oh, help me, God, to give it up!

Strong drink to the body can do no good;
It defiles the blood, likewise the food,
And causes the drunkard with pain to groan,
Because it extracts the marrow from the bone:

And hastens him on to a premature grave,
Because to the cup he is bound a slave;
For the temptation is hard to thole,
And by it he will lose his immortal soul.

The more's the pity, I must say,
That so many men and women are by it led astray,
And decoyed from the paths of virtue and led on to vice
By drinking too much alcohol and acting unwise.

Good people all, of every degree,
I pray, ye all be warned by me:
I advise ye all to pause and think,
And never more to taste strong drink.

Because the drunkard shall never inherit the kingdom of God
And whosoever God loves he chastens with his rod:
Therefore, be warned, and think in time,
And don't drink any more whisky, rum, or wine.

But go at once-- make no delay,
And join the Blue Ribbon Army without dismay,
And rally round Mr Murphy, and make a bold stand,
And help to drive the Bane of Society from our land.

I wish Mr Murphy every success,
Hoping he will make rapid progress;
And to the Blue Ribbon Army may he always prove true,
And adhere to his colours-- the beautiful blue.


Jude:)

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: The Sandman
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 01:02 PM

Yes Yes wow yaroo.Do you know Ode to Dr Murchison. Its a long time since i read it, But i think the doctor advises William T opaz Mcgonigle, that whats wrong with him is that hes writing too much poetry. if you have it I would love to read it again. DickMiles

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 01:13 PM

And decoyed from the paths of virtue and led on to vice
By drinking too much alcohol and acting unwise.



Dear God, leave us strong spirits, if you will, but spare us from such poets.


A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 01:21 PM

It's enough to drive a man to drink!

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: RangerSteve
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 02:00 PM

It's occured to me that if the word "dismay" did'nt exist, neither would McGonagall's poetry. It's always there, and always in a needless sentence. (Oddly enough, the poem about Tayport, which has a lot of "ay" rhymes, is the only one of his poems I've ever seen that doesn't use "dismay").

And, concerning the poem that started this thread, I wonder why he thought it was necessary to put into peom a story that Hans Andersen had already written? That's the most blatent piece of plagiarism I've ever seen.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 02:04 PM

You are so right. The word "dismay" was absolutely crucial to McGonagall's...craft. You can't have exaggerated melodrama without copious amounts of dismay.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Alba
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 02:16 PM

Would you perhaps be thinking ofthe Poem 'A Tribute to Dr. Murison' Captain?

A Tribute to Dr. Murison
Success to the good and skilful Dr Murison,
For golden opinions he has won
From his patients one and all,
And from myself, McGonagall.

He is very skilful and void of pride;
He was so to me when at my bedside,
When I turned badly on the 25th of July,
And was ill with inflammation, and like to die.

He told me at once what was ailing me;
He said I had been writing too much poetry,
And from writing poetry I would have to refrain,
Because I was suffering from inflammation on the brain.

And he has been very good to me in my distress,
Good people of Dundee, I honestly confess,
And to all his patients as well as me
Within the Royal city of Dundee.

He is worthy of the public's support,
And to his shop they should resort
To get his advice one and all;
Believe me on him ye ought to call.

He is very affable in temper and a skilful man,
And to cure all his patients he tries all he can;
And I wish him success for many a long day,
For he has saved me from dying, I venture to say;
The kind treatment I received surpasses all
Is the honest confession of McGonagall.


It would appear that the inflammation passed eh!!

**Giggle**
Jude

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 02:48 PM

Har! Har! Har! (gasp!) That is truly McGonagall at his most dreadful. If the man had been deliberately trying to make a complete fool of himself, he could hardly have done better.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: The Sandman
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 07:53 PM

Yes, thankyou, Ode to Dr Murison. Wonderful.

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 07:57 PM

Actually, it sounds to me as if the inflammation was reaching a critical stage... ;-)

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 08:14 PM

ANd how we wish that Doctor fair and strong
Had made his prescription last more long!
And somehow managed McGonagall to persuade
His brain required that he find some other trade,
ANd made him a wagoner or dustman be
And still his pen for all eternitee.

A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Alba
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 09:09 PM

Oh Amos that is one diabolically bad response. be careful now your getting to be good at being bad...and remember that "inflammation" information!
Jude

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 10:51 PM

LOL!! Thanks, Jude. I promise to more careful be....


A

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Little Hawk
Date: 12 Jul 06 - 11:08 PM

I think, Amos, that you should do more McGonagall parodies. You're good at it. I try, but my songwriting instincts get in the way, and I end up writing stuff that's just not BAD enough to match McGonagall!

Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry
From: Amos
Date: 13 Jul 06 - 12:20 AM

Thanks for the vote of...er...confidence, LH! But I will not do them; it would, like starting a bonfire out of tacky plastic lawn decorations, be a temptation I feel I must resist.


A