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

Pomes with Typos

Bad trypists of the wold untie,
With quiet paythos they derst sho,
The preshus little that they no,
O that the cood but harder trie.

(From "A tteasury of sublimely demented flarf")

"The uncontested rank underbelly of oblivion"
(A Pretentious title)


She.


Picks her nose.
And lets the pink torrent
Of nasal spam wash hissing
Across the flatulent nightmare surfaces
Of lonely boarded-up strip malls
and bombed-out
Filling stations,
Where blue chicory explodes
from cracking pavement,
And broken glass spawns,
Marinating in dank, fetid pools of oil
Beneath the dark underbellies
Of rusted-out pickups and dead Beetles.

You don't give a girl a chance, Radar
(lunges in for a passionate kiss)


(that's good poetry, Paul )

From the
Abberant Pew Addict
Collection of Plagerised Verse


I Wondered to Myself Out Loud

I wondered to myself out loud,
Whilst rambling o’er the vales and hills,
Why when I’m standing in a crowd,
It makes me terrified and ill,
Apart from quaking at the knees,
Falt’ring heart makes me ill at ease.

Continuous are the queues that twine,
And shove on dole collection day,
They stretch in never-ending line,
All waiting for their unearned pay,
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Bowing their heads as in a trance.

The cops beside them danced; but they
Out-did the downtrod proles in glee:
A rozzer could not but be gay,
In such pathetic company:
I gaze--and gaze--but little thought
What stealth the policemen had brought:

For oft, when in my cups I lies
In vacant catatonic mood,
They flash before my bloodshot eyes
Which is the curse of solitude;
And then my head with terror fills,
Of dole queues and the good old bill.

I love a bonny lassie,
E'en though her eyes get glassy
When I get much too gassy,
Discussing Lou Agassiz,
Or even Mama Cassie,
(To which I say, "Tant d'assez!").
He has a nerve (oh, has he!),
With all his music jazzy,
His films with Raymond Massey,
Or Jacqueline Onassis
(At least she wasn't sassy),
But that was just ecstasy.
The lassie is most classy.

A Bonny Lassie

I love a bonny lassie – she’s a Scot,
In fact I love her really quite a lot,
Her haggis is divine,
And her porridge quite sublime,
And serves whiskey by the bottle, not the tot.

She plays the bagpipes, naked in the glen,
To the delectation of the local men,
She strips the willow bare,
For anyone who’s there,
And tosses a mean caber now and then.


From the
Abberant Pew Addict
Collection of Sterilising Ceilidh Collection

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
I love thee so my mind is in a daze
I love thee so my mind’s a craze
I love thee. Let me count the days.

Yes seven days still make a week
Perhaps that’s why, when I espy
Your beauteous and gladdening eye
I feel so weak

Thirty or thirty one still make a month
Except for February, month of love
When God smiles down upon us from Up Above
Because we’re so in love

Three hundred and thirty five or six
Add up to a year
I love your muscles like bricks
I love thee beyond all fear

How do I love thee
I love thee like crazy
Like raindrops love th’emergent daisy
I love thee like a vacant schoolgirl. I love thee.

How do I love thee? Like the sea loves the shore
I love thee like everything I’ve said before
I love thee like a schoolgirl loves to sigh
I love thee almost enough to die

By Sandra Richly-Strange

Sorry - three hundred and SIXTY five or six!

Sandra x

I was never anny good at sums!

HOW DO I LOVE THEE? (Revised Version)


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
I love thee so my mind is in a daze
I love thee so my mind’s a craze
I love thee. Let me count the days.

Yes seven days still make a week
Perhaps that’s why, when I espy
Your beauteous and gladdening eye
I feel so weak

Thirty or thirty one still make a month
Except for February, month of love
When God smiles down upon us from Up Above
Because we’re so in love

Three hundred and sixty five or six
Add up to a year
I love your muscles like bricks
I love thee beyond all fear

How do I love thee
I love thee like crazy
Like raindrops love th’emergent daisy
I love thee like a vacant schoolgirl. I love thee.

How do I love thee? Like the sea loves the shore
I love thee like everything I’ve said before
I love thee like a schoolgirl loves to sigh
I love thee almost enough to die

By Sandra Richly-Strange x

Mayhap, as I look around,
An 'h2g2 poem' I have found
And sometimes a voice inside me has said
'I wonder if they're
Aware
Of this thread.'



Miles Milesaway

now that's bad poetry


Aneiou k[ mdk ssg7 kker
Eeerrr pp= prpepk7-, - kkkkl\a
Qpivfj jh hj jh =op pp[;
RIR4EB okbo p[s p==rermk
L;pww ;lkr5 mmkrew [pwe-=

Solid, man, solid (as in concrete poetry)

Jab

hope it doesn't lower the thread, but it sort of came in a flashand I'll take humour where I find it

I found the deep transcience of the third line paricularly thrilling.

"Oh poets, thou hast touched ..."
by Elspeth Gravy-Browing

Oh poets, thou hast touched my very heart,
Hell’s teeth it’s better than it was before,
You strike up sounding like the general roar,
Of the rushing wind – of a melancholic fart,
In such fetid air – no antidotes.
Such flatulated music, answering for
Mankind's forlornest verse. Thou durst pour
From orifice to ears, divine bad verse,
Is there no end, this mine of wit and rhyme.
Which poet wilt thou have me most abuse?
I hope to make a Beeblecast in time
Of memories thy verses interfuse?
A key, in which to sing --- or maybe mime?
A grave, on which to rest my laurels? Choose.

i think it's sad
it kinda makes me mad
that people old enough to be my dad
can write poetry this bad
and it's really really awful and it's no joke may i add


mandy flowers-leightley

Reply - I am Glad

I am glad to know it makes you sad,
To find my poems quite so bad,
‘It might be fun’ – I think you said,
‘If we had a Bad Poetry thread.’

On your first post – I do recall,
You summed it up for one and all,
‘It must be recognisably,
Attempted proper poetry.’

I’ve done my best – the best I can,
To make my awful verses scan,
I’ve taken proper poets’ verse
And tried to make it even worse.

As to the fact – I’m old and grey,
There is but this that I can say,
There’s nowt that riles a dull old fart,
Like a challenge from a young upstart.


From the
Abberant Pew Addict
Collection

Oh deary, deary thee
Just where does this leave me?
To which age group do I belong?
Do I wear knickers or a thong?
I guess I'll have to pull my joker
At best my pomes are mediocre.
In utter dispair
I pull my hair.

By Distressed Mediocrity

I’m not sure that I really care,
About Germanic underwear,
And if you feel a bit bereft,
Don’t pull you hair – there’ll be none left.

I don't understand, Pedantic. You seem to be addressing me in reply to Miss Flowers-Leightley's post 116. Surely she's entitled to her own opinion?

When mentioning age
Did she rattle your cage?

Jaband