h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I'm a tulip in a pool of jello,
A late twilight moment, the last splotch of yellow,
The last rose of summer, the last bit of cream......
When she saw him in her doorway, Agnes let out a scream.

(By someone who is pretending to be me)

From the
Abberant Pew Addict
Collection of Curséd Verse

Writing Awful Poetry

This morning, it occurred to me,
That writing awful poetry,
Is simply ‘fun’,
No – that’s not a pun.

However, the stuff considered ‘good’,
‘Bout 'leaves that carpet yon dark wood',
Or - 'wand’ring lonely as a cloud',
Is nothing of which I’d be proud.

But what I fail to understand,
Is why those bards – considered grand -
Invariability deride and sneer,
At poets such as Edward Lear.

On the website of the poetseers,
There’s an index of all their greatest peers
But to illustrate this definitive list?
They use Hammersmith Bridge through a dank grey mist!

Good poetry must be sombre and choice,
To be solemnly read in a tremulous voice,
But - have children ever asked of you,
“Dad – read me Maya Angelou?”

Blöde Gedichte ha'm oft was gemeinsam:
Sie machen die Schreiber sehr einsam.
So falls du nicht Ringelnatz heißt
Möcht' ich dass du folgendes weißt:
Bei Verstopfung hilft besser der Leinsam'n.


Bad verses oft have this in common:
They make the writes quite lonesam
So if Ringelnatz isn't your name
You should know his claim to fame:
Digestion is best cured with linseed.

Sorry, that should of course have been: writers...lonesome

I think that the German language certainly has the edge over English in this respect!!!

That should really get them going at the Casablanca Poet's Society meeting at the Dog & Parrot on Sunday morning!

I don't know where I had my thoughts there: Verstopfung is constipation, not digestion. However, I think my incorrect use of digestion makes it really very bad.

I don't know much about poetry,
Good or bad, is t' same to me.
But I thought I'd post some thingy
To show I'm interested-y


So... How bad is that?

Additional line:

And of course the author's me.

I know about as much as you,
But I should say, twill problee do.

I'm, like, totally ready to lead.
Give me the White House, I'll show you some speed.
Naughty Iraqis? I'll show them who's boss.
They'll get a huge pout if they should make me cross.

paulh, channeling Paris Hilton

Ah, Pedantic, yours a nice one,
if it was a competition,
I dare say you could have won.
I'd vote for you anytime
(please pronounce this last word "tun")

Good gawd sir – never a competition,
A poetry contest - a war of attrition?
The aim is nothing but harmless fun,
A bore to most but amusing to some.

from the
Abberant Pew Addict

I had a little rhyme I planned to use in this here verse.
I held it closely to my heart. 'Twas brilliant and quite terse.
But when I went to look for it, I found that it had fled.
It shot me from its ambush point, and now, alas, I'm dead.

Oh, dear, Paul H do not have died, [ about that one!!]
It would make us a little sad.
But we could write you an epitaph,
And be sure it don't make you laugh.

And this and the other one were from me too.

Waying with Plords

Stifle does not rhyme with filets
Fliest doesn’t not rhyme with flites
But each four words have a thing in common,
Each one is an anagram of itself

From the
Abberant Pew Addict
Collection of Poetical Anagrams

Laughing brings me back to life.
It's great to have a chuckle.
Jenny, get some videos.
We'll watch Fatty Arbuckle.

Fragrant as a new Spring flower
Delightfully weeping in the rain
I see that Beauty is back on the screen again
Refreshing each most long and languorous hour
How awfully, near-intolerably pleasant to the senses
Of the soul of a man of my most rare proclivities
And profoundest sensitivities -

I see and I rejoice that so many peasants
Are on this thread now present
To add their poetry -

What hyperaesthetic plenitude! What infinite desire! What Beauty!
What sublimest feelings are contained within!

Though a peasant's work is awfully crude and thin
Compared to my own wondrous silvery verse, inspired
Directly by by Apollo - how I love Thee,
God of Beauty!


The Hon. Algernon E. Crabtree

Bei Jupiter! Dies Gedicht konfuszirte mich sehr.
Wer oder was ist die Schönheit die Ihr preiset, mein Herr?
Den Bauern, den kann ich schon eher ausmachen
Doch Apollo? Das is ja zum Lachen.

(By Jove! I'm confused by the poem here
Who or what is the beauty you're praising, dear sir?
I can spot the peasant with relative ease
But Apollo? That certainly must be a tease.)

a poem about pain.

AHGG!! AHHGG!! AHGGG!!
a waste of time writing anymore
nothing rhymes


(mine)

'Twas in the Spring that darling Zelda said,
"Come with me, Bud, your love is my life."
I wish I'd said, "An hour with you would leave me dead."
"Why not take a chance? I want to be your wife."

The crickets chirped.
The reindeer pulled Santa's sleigh.
Off in the distance a wino burped.
The cheese mill churned out curds and whey.

I never saw her again.
She'll be back, of that I'm sure.
She forgot her car keys.....