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07 Aug 03 - 07:40 PM (#998642) Subject: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk 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 |
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07 Aug 03 - 08:17 PM (#998664) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos Sure...but why? A |
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07 Aug 03 - 09:40 PM (#998708) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Rapparee 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. |
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07 Aug 03 - 09:57 PM (#998718) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: mack/misophist I'm not as easily taken as Rapaire. No matches for me unless she's barefoot. Bah, humbug! |
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07 Aug 03 - 10:31 PM (#998729) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Padre 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 |
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07 Aug 03 - 10:32 PM (#998730) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Rapparee 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. |
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07 Aug 03 - 11:12 PM (#998747) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: JennyO 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 |
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08 Aug 03 - 02:22 AM (#998795) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos Boy that Julia Moore!! What a powerful sense of ineptitude!! A |
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08 Aug 03 - 04:15 AM (#998823) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Micca 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 |
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08 Aug 03 - 07:24 AM (#998878) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: greg stephens A pure guess, but might it be the immortal Robbie Burns before he became born-again Scottish? |
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08 Aug 03 - 09:09 AM (#998926) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Micca Spot on Greg!! and fairly appalling stuff it is too!! |
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08 Aug 03 - 05:08 PM (#999118) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: TheBigPinkLad Julia Moore might be a mangler of words, but by Jove she has rythmn! |
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08 Aug 03 - 05:59 PM (#999141) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Rapparee 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. |
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08 Aug 03 - 08:14 PM (#999203) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |
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08 Aug 03 - 08:27 PM (#999206) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Rapparee 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." |
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08 Aug 03 - 08:50 PM (#999215) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |
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08 Aug 03 - 09:17 PM (#999223) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Alba 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 |
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08 Aug 03 - 09:56 PM (#999237) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Rapparee 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. |
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09 Aug 03 - 01:32 AM (#999280) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk "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 |
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09 Aug 03 - 02:21 AM (#999288) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos BE AFRAID... BE VERY AFRAID ... |
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09 Aug 03 - 03:39 AM (#999293) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: greg stephens 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? |
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09 Aug 03 - 07:17 AM (#999325) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: alanabit 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. |
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09 Aug 03 - 10:26 AM (#999371) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Rapparee 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.) |
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09 Aug 03 - 12:14 PM (#999412) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk 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 |
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09 Aug 03 - 12:34 PM (#999420) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos No, it doesn't; but it makes me want to call the ASPCA to round up some loose animals. A |
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09 Aug 03 - 12:35 PM (#999421) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: alanabit You have just reminded me what it is that I like so much about radios - they have OFF switches. |
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10 Aug 03 - 10:00 AM (#999645) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Sandra in Sydney 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 |
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10 Aug 03 - 11:13 AM (#999676) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Willie-O 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. |
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10 Aug 03 - 11:29 AM (#999688) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |
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10 Aug 03 - 11:50 AM (#999692) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Rapparee 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. |
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10 Aug 03 - 12:52 PM (#999724) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: GUEST,Ms Penelope Rutledge '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 |
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10 Aug 03 - 01:50 PM (#999754) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |
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10 Aug 03 - 01:58 PM (#999759) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |
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10 Aug 03 - 03:49 PM (#999819) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk That stuff is so relentlessly middle-class that it just squeaks. |
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08 Jul 06 - 03:19 PM (#1779003) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Alba 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 |
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08 Jul 06 - 05:34 PM (#1779078) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: GUEST,Poet extrordinaire 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 |
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08 Jul 06 - 06:55 PM (#1779124) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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). |
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08 Jul 06 - 08:14 PM (#1779183) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Alba 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 |
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08 Jul 06 - 10:22 PM (#1779231) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |
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08 Jul 06 - 10:55 PM (#1779239) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: LadyJean 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. |
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09 Jul 06 - 04:07 AM (#1779321) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Sandra in Sydney 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 |
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09 Jul 06 - 07:30 AM (#1779377) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Bunnahabhain 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...... |
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09 Jul 06 - 08:34 PM (#1779853) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk Perhaps Penelope was speaking a bit tongue in cheek. Quite a thrill to read all these splendid verses again! |
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10 Jul 06 - 11:55 AM (#1780372) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: The Sandman What a shame Mcgonigle didnt meet and marry julia a moore ,think of all those hilariously funny poets they could have produced. |
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10 Jul 06 - 12:22 PM (#1780392) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: The Sandman 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 |
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10 Jul 06 - 01:50 PM (#1780458) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: The Sandman 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 |
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10 Jul 06 - 03:00 PM (#1780509) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: The Sandman 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. |
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11 Jul 06 - 02:27 AM (#1780790) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Georgiansilver 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? |
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11 Jul 06 - 07:05 AM (#1780889) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: The Sandman 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. |
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11 Jul 06 - 09:47 AM (#1780984) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |
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11 Jul 06 - 06:32 PM (#1781366) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: The Sandman yes, well said Amos |
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12 Jul 06 - 02:48 AM (#1781558) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Dave Hanson 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 |
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12 Jul 06 - 11:45 AM (#1781843) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: The Sandman 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 |
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12 Jul 06 - 12:17 PM (#1781868) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk 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! |
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12 Jul 06 - 12:21 PM (#1781871) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Alba 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:) |
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12 Jul 06 - 01:02 PM (#1781906) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: The Sandman 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 |
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12 Jul 06 - 01:13 PM (#1781909) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |
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12 Jul 06 - 01:21 PM (#1781917) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk It's enough to drive a man to drink! |
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12 Jul 06 - 02:00 PM (#1781941) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: RangerSteve 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. |
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12 Jul 06 - 02:04 PM (#1781948) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk 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. |
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12 Jul 06 - 02:16 PM (#1781956) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Alba 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 |
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12 Jul 06 - 02:48 PM (#1781977) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk 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. |
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12 Jul 06 - 07:53 PM (#1782172) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: The Sandman Yes, thankyou, Ode to Dr Murison. Wonderful. |
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12 Jul 06 - 07:57 PM (#1782176) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk Actually, it sounds to me as if the inflammation was reaching a critical stage... ;-) |
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12 Jul 06 - 08:14 PM (#1782190) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |
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12 Jul 06 - 09:09 PM (#1782229) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Alba 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 |
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12 Jul 06 - 10:51 PM (#1782294) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos LOL!! Thanks, Jude. I promise to more careful be.... A |
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12 Jul 06 - 11:08 PM (#1782306) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Little Hawk 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! |
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13 Jul 06 - 12:20 AM (#1782345) Subject: RE: BS: More Bad Poetry From: Amos 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 |