Earth ֍ Mother ֍ Stick ‘em up! ֍ Gim’me all you got! ֍ Take, take, take, without a thought. ֍ Hands off the entire lot, it’s bloody well mine! ֍ I don’t care, leave it scorched, barren and beyond repair. ֍ In my rocketship, I’ll climb, leaving Mother Earth behind — Ciao suckas!!!
He brought out the champagne with a blush, “Bottoms up!” It was down in a rush. Before he could sing, She’d swallowed the ring, Now they gather to scrutinize each flush.
There once was a boy named Luck Whose folks didn’t give a… HOOT. “Go jump off da pier ‘n don’t come back ‘roun’ere!” But they didn’t have that kinda luck.
there she stood unkempt and crude her family lines a sickly brood her sweats all stained with God knows what brown and smudged across her butt but in the light of twilight time hot damn, my Lord she looked so fine through the years and many a stain she stole my heart my love she’d Gain
The following is written in response to Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest. The challenge asks that we channel our inner Shakespeare and write a terrible sonnet about everybody’s favourite one-pot food, soup.
What Is Soup?
The sorcerer’s mirepoix, the witches roux, with bone and water forge a mystic blend, add salt and spice, merely a pinch or two, elements together, combine, transcend.
Cast iron cauldron yields to fiery kiss, stir and simmer, cooking slowly in time, bubbling, boiling, with wisps of steaming bliss, filling the fragrant air with spells sublime.
Chick’n noodle, chowder, gazpacho on ice, mullugatawny, bisque and gumbo too, potatoes, pasta, or a spot of rice, some so thick they’re more akin to stew.
What is soup? You’ll find you have to conclude, soup is the liquid version of solid food.1
The following is in response to Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest where we were asked to take the first line of a famous poem and then rewrite the rest as [the poet] see(s) fit. Bonus points if [you] use the original meter and rhyming scheme. My poem is a (terrible) golfer take on Robert Frost’s“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” except on the golf course in the morning. Hope you enjoy.
Stomping My Woods on My Round This Morning
Whose woods these are I think I know Their place is on the golf course though He Rory‘s up a Tiger tail In anger bent and gave a throw
My little cart may think it Strange To watch him stomp around insane Swearing, cursing and Spiething nails Please end this round and end the Payne
My caddy’s head begins to shake As if to say it’s a mistake Rolled up cuff, the language Fowler As he wades right into the lake…
At the next tee, I’m Jacked to see If I can hit the green in three And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree
Sadie rushed out to the barn, A whip with her cowgirl charm, The animals arranged, An ending deranged, Now Sadie’s done bought the farm.
Fad Diet
Fat Larry began a fad diet, With an eye for sweet apple pies, He followed the plan to the letter, And promptly when up one size. Undeterred he continued to eat, For the losses he’d soon realize, Until a peek in the mirror did show, The pie had gone straight to his thighs.
Driving down the road 🛣️ Minding my own business When buddy flips me the bird 🦜 I know free verse don’t rhyme But this guy’s a real turd 💩 With my ego now bruised My brain explodes 💥 And my senses go blind What’s this clown’s 🤡 Problem anyway Step on the gas ⛽ I weave through the rush My window recessed 🪟 As I pull up to your ride I start waving my fist 👊 Rhyme a curse at the lady inside Don’t call the cops 🚓 That’s not meant for you
I got the wrong car 🚗 Mistaken identity I swear I’m totally raging 🤬 As I punch it again Blast past a school bus 🚌 This rhyming is insane I catch a glimpse 👀 As you make the left I race through the turn 🏎️ And ‘round the bend Caught in my web 🕸 ️The thrill of pursuit gone What do I do now ❓ I take a deep breath and In a moment of zen ☯️ My road rage does pass I rhyme one last time ⌚ And realise, I’m the real ass!
I have been sick for just over a week now and find myself tardy for Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest. I’ve read everyone else’s wonderfully terrible work and thought I’d submit a late submission. Hope you enjoy my terrible attempt at Burlesque poetry.
Growing old If I may be so bold Is a fate that really does blow Things start to leak Nothing’s at peak And ear hair begins to grow The girls may be hot But it’s all for naught There’s nary a twitch down below My backs gone out I’ve a bout o’ the gout How I got here, I just don’t know
If I may be frank Damn, my mind has gone blank I barely remember my name Gravity’s a drag Pulling down on my bag Wearing shorts only brings me shame Life can be blunt Getting old an affront To how we once played the game I’m a retiree I’m well past my expiry How did I get to be this damn lame