NationStates Jolt Archive

I'm posting up this message
Just to let you know,
today everyone is rhyming
no matter where you go.

Today we all are full of joy
For Bad Poetry Day doesn't suck.
And if you do not like it
Well, I don't give a...

single red cent to beggars.

HAPPY BAD POETRY DAY!

Oh, my, god.

Who said poetry had to rhyme all the time?

that ryhme is a crime

Little dog,
Crossing street,
Motor car,
Sausage meat.

Words in honour of the famously bad poet and Scotsman William McGonagle:

Hang on, I'll just get my McGonagle,
And read quietly his august chronicle,
Though my eyesight is poor,
I'll even the score,
And read his words through my monocle.

I call this one The musings of a tortoise that has fallen of a ledge and has landed on it's back

"Shit!"

Words in honour of the famously bad poet and Scotsman William McGonagle:

Hang on, I'll just get my McGonagle,
And read quietly his august chronicle,
Though my eyesight is poor,
I'll even the score,
And read his words through my monocle.
Not as good as the Hipporhinostricow [sp?]

Not as good as the Hipporhinostricow [sp?]

Milligan?


In the meantime, thanks to Rinkworks' dialectizer:

"daff0dils" (18O)4 ah \/\/anderd lone7y as a cl0ud trheT floqats oN hofgh o"er vales asn' hi7ls, when 4ll at noce aah sar a v0rwd, a h0st, of golden adffodils; beSide th' lake, beneath tyh' rtr3es, flutterin' na dancin" in th' breeze~~ ololololol!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1~~~~~~ lolololollololol CONTINUOUZ AS TH' STRS THET SJHINE AN' TwINKLE NO TH' MILKY WYA, ETHY SRRETCHD IN NEVA-HEDNDIN LIN3 ALoNG TH MARGIN OF A BAY: TEN THOUSAN" SAR AH AT A G7A|\|CE, ToSTIN' THREOIR HAIdZ IN SPRIHGTY DANCE lollolollololololo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!~~~ th" waves besIde tehm danced; but ttheY out-did th' sparklin' wazved in gl33 : a poet c'd not but be gay, in sech a j0cund co,penny: ah gazed -- an' gazed -- but lil thukn whut 1n tarrnation wealth th shwo tme ahd borught: fo of, when on mah couch ah le i in vac4nt o' ni pEnsvie mood, they fflash upon teht inward ewye whicdHs i th" bliss of SoL1tude; 4N' tehnmah hart W1f p7easufe fills, anm' adncEs wif th" daffodi7s!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11~

Herons take the sky,
their echoing calls reach out:
Dude, Doom III like PWNZ!!!

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Candy is sweet
I think youre cool.

There once was a paparazzi
Who wanted to interview Nazis
He found one and said,
"What's going on in your head..."
And I couldn't find a rhyme for Nazi.

To the people of NS, I'm sorry to say
That you'll have to endure
another bad poetry day
the rhymes and the rythems
in their uninspiring way
will make us all cringe
as the various poets step forth to say
It rhymes and it ryhtems!
It makes not a drop of sense!
But behold, the meaning is really quite dense!
Look to my words, the vocabalistic spew!
The meaning is clear to me, oh stupid you.
We nod and applaud
and quickly get out
before the poets can hold
another horrendous bout.

*bows*

There once was a man from St Bee's
Who was stung on the arm by a wasp.
When asked, "Does it hurt?"
He replied, "No it doesn't;
I'm so glad it wasn't a hornet."

There's a 19th century Scots-Canadian to rival McGonigal clled James McIntyre, although he lacks McGonigal's mastery of metre in that McIntyre's verses all tend to scan. Anyway, he wrote a lot of very bad poetry, mostly about cheese. Here's one:

Ode on the Mammoth Cheese, Weighing Over 7,000 Pounds

We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you'll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

Cows as numerous as a swarm of bees
Or as the leaves upon the trees,
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled, queen of cheese.

May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great world's show at Paris.

Of the youth beware of these,
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek, then songs or glees
We could not sing, oh! queen of cheese.

We'rt thou suspended from balloon,
You'd cast a shade even at noon,
Folks would think it was the moon,
About to fall and crush them soon.

There's a 19th century Scots-Canadian to rival McGonigal clled James McIntyre, although he lacks McGonigal's mastery of metre in that McIntyre's verses all tend to scan.



Just reading that I automatically slip into my cod-Scottish accent that I use by habit when reading McGonagle.

Don't forget Julia A. Moore, who's first collected volume of poetry, The Sweet Singer of Michigan, earned her a place in the cannon of bad poetry.

TO MY FRIENDS AND CRITICS
Come all you friends and critics,
And listen to my song,
A word I will say to you,
It will not take me long,
The people talks about me,
They've nothing else to do
But to criticise their neighbors,
And they have me now in view.
Perhaps they talk for meanness,
And perhaps it is in jest,
If they leave out their freeness
It would suit me now the best,
To keep the good old maxim
I find it hard to do,
That is to do to others
As you wish them do to you.

Perhaps you've read the papers
Containing my interview;
I hope you kind good people
Will not believe it true.
Some Editors of the papers
They thought it would be wise
To write a column about me,
So they filled it up with lies.

The papers have ridiculed me
A year and a half or more.
Such slander as the interview
I never read before.
Some reporters and editors
Are versed in telling lies.
Others it seems are willing
To let industry rise.

The people of good judgment
Will read the papers through,
And not rely on its truth
Without a candid view.
My first attempt at literature
Is the "Sweet Singer" by name,
I wrote that book without a thought
Of the future, or of fame.

Dear Friends, I write for money,
With a kind heart and hand,
I wish to make no Enemies
Throughout my native land.
Kind friends, now I close my rhyme,
And lay my pen aside,
Between me and my critics
I leave you to decide.

I think I'll let my signature speak for me.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Some poems rhyme
And some don't.


OR...


Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm a schitzophrenic
And I am too.

(works better when said to someone, not typed out :p)

Thread starter, you suck :sniper:

I write lots of poetry. Latest, probably not the greatest but meh.

Moonlit Alley

In the moonlight
that falls
through the leaves
dappling the ground

in the night
devoid of sun
a patchwork of light
white and soft

which descends
unto everything
beneath the shelter
of the mighty boughs

a smiling face
beyond the tiny pools
of shining light
in the moon lit alley.

Not dark, brooding or depressing, like most of my poems.

People of the nation and state
For my poetry do not myself hate
I know that it's bad,
That you read it I'm glad
I now go off to rollerly skate


This one we actually wrote in AP tests when the answer eluded us on an essay...

There once was a teacher named [name deleted cause he seems like the kind of guy who would play NS]
Who rode around all day on a scooter
[Teacher's name] was fired
A new teach was hired
After this test we're going to Hooters.

I'm tiny
I'm spiney
O so whiney
I'm lean
I'm mean
O so green
I am the cactus

Proof that even a great poet can still write a shitty poem:

To a Young Ass
its mother being tethered near it

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Poor little foal of an oppressèd race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
"Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes"?
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched mother's shortened chain?
And truly, very piteous is her lot --
Chained to a log within a narrow spot,
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

Poor Ass! they master should have learnt to show
Pity -- best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives like thee,
Half famished in a land of Luxury!
How askingly its footsteps hither bend!
It seems to say, "And have I then one friend?"
Innocent foal! thou poor despised forlorn!
I hail thee Brother -- spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast!


--1794

People of the nation and state
For my poetry do not myself hate
I know that it's bad,
That you read it I'm glad
I now go off to rollerly skate


This one we actually wrote in AP tests when the answer eluded us on an essay...

There once was a teacher named [name deleted cause he seems like the kind of guy who would play NS]
Who rode around all day on a scooter
[Teacher's name] was fired
A new teach was hired
After this test we're going to Hooters.

kick it tuff!

Clipside of the pinkeye flight,
I'm not the percent you think survives,
I need sanctuary in the pages of this book...
Gestating with all the other rats,
Nurse said that my skin will need a graft,
I am of pockmarked shapes,
the vermin you ned to loathe.
*savage drums*

I did it at a poetry reading once and won 75$. It's actually a intro to The Mars Volta's 'Deloused in the Comatorium' album. Good stuff.

ANTI Poetry squad arrives
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