Bad poetry

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    Roses are red, violets are blue

    Except that’s a lie-only one line is true

    Blue is the color of eggs and the sky

    You said violets were blue. Why did you lie?

    It’s true that the name of that beautiful hue

    Does come from the name of the violet, it’s true

    Deception of this kind cannot be expected

    To thrive, yet my ideals of truth are rejected.

    Three lies: the name, the statement, the hue!

    ¡Por favor! Make sure your flower colors are true.


    Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
    Thy micturations are to me,(with big yawning)
    As plurdled gabbleblotchits,
    On a lurgid bee,
    That mordiously hath blurted out,
    Its earted jurtles, grumbling
    Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer. [drowned out by moaning and screaming]
    Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,
    Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,
    And living glupules frart and stipulate,
    Like jowling meated liverslime,
    Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes,
    And hooptiously drangle me,
    With crinkly bindlewurdles,mashurbitries.
    Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
    See if I don’t!
    (I probably won’t!)

    (Douglas Adams)


    There once was an anti-vaxxer from Chelm
    Who lived in his very own realm
    He said “shots are wrong,
    disease makes you strong!”
    And with bad facts he will overwhelm.


    Oops, forgot to give credit to Reb Yidel Schwartz.


    @WolfishMusings My first thought was to add some Vogon poetry. Good to see someone beat me to it.


    The Maven (Amy Oseroff and Miriam Wildeman)

    Once inside a Succah dreary,
    While I pondered Jewish theory,
    Seeking answers to my query,
    Responsa tomes strewn ’round the flooring,
    While I studied, deeply poring,
    Oy gevalt! in came my mother,
    Seeking this and nothing more,
    “Darling, I need halvah from the store.”
    Sighed my mother from the door,
    “Only this, and nothing more.”

    Nothing more? “Oh mother never,
    Never was your list so brief.
    Are you well? Have you a fever?
    You don’t need schmaltz? Or corned beef either?”
    Sighed my mother from the door,
    ”Only this, and nothing more.”

    So I schlepped off to the store, buying halvah, nothing more,
    But when I came back through the gate, see,
    My mother stood there, to await me.
    “Nu, darling, I forgot. I also need some mandelbrot.”
    “Mother, please think this fully through,
    since I have other things to do.
    One more thing you need, or four?”
    Sighed my mother from the door,
    ”Only this, and nothing more.”

    Mutely moaning, “It’s a mitzvah,”
    Aloud I asked her, “Need some kishke?”
    How about some lukshen kugel
    Or apples for your famous strudel?”
    But, “No,” said she, “mandelbrot is all I wish for.”
    Sighed my mother from the door,
    “Only this, and nothing more.”

    So off I went straight to the deli,
    Marching past the herring smelly,
    Ignoring matzos, and the soup stock,
    Passing by the liver chop block,
    Home I came, with one thing only,
    Only mandelbrot, lost and lonely.
    Sighed my mother from the door,
    “Only this, and nothing more.”

    “We have the food now for the party,
    But we need to clean up, smarty.
    I don’t mind stacks of books around the Succah,
    But should my friends know you use a hookah?
    We have the food we need, but wait! That recipe from the rebbetzin – ”
    I gasped, “Which cabinet’s the Manischewitz in?
    Mom, I won’t go back to the store. I have had it –


    Also, if anyone has Turning Point by Devora Reich, feel free to add the Shulamis poem submitted for the sem’s journal.


    If you want an example of a really bad poem
    Which, in truth, doesn’t even rhyme
    Look no Further than this post right here
    You can tweet it to your friends.


    RebYidd, your profile now says: “Our name is RebYidd23, not R Yidel Shwartz.
    That’s not an easy mistake to make, but the Vues made it.”
    I’m trying to work out what this means. The Vues credited R’ Yidel Schwartz with the poem,
    and so did you, so I assume this R’ Yidel, who isn’t you, did write it. Did the Vues think it was
    you who had written it, writing under another name (and if so, how did you know this)?


    They changed the signatures on some letters from “RebYidd23” to “R’ Yidel Schwartz”. Purists would not consider this poem a true acrostic, but it’s really hard to start a line with a number.


    Is there a thread for posting good poetry (by other people)?


    I hadn’t noticed the acrostic. : ) Nice!


    Luv The Maven, it’t terrific.
    Now if Poe would only know…..


    If somebody could write a parody of Robert Frost’s cryptic poem, ” The Road Not Taken”, I’d be interested to see it. There’s no agreement on its interpretation , and I always found it fascinating.

    Here it is:

    The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost, 1874 – 1963

    …..Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth;

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim,
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same,

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
    I doubted if I should ever come back.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference…..


    Here’s A. A. Milne.

    “Don’t Bustle me,” said Eeyore, getting up slowly. “Don’t now-then me.” He took a piece of paper from behind his ear, and unfolded it. “Nobody knows anything about this,” he went on. “This is a Surprise.” He coughed in an important way, and began again: “What-nots and Etceteras, before I begin, or perhaps I should say, before I end, I have a piece of Poetry to read to you. Hitherto—hitherto—a long word meaning—well, you’ll see what it means directly—hitherto, as I was saying, all the Poetry in the forest has been written by Pooh, a Bear with a Pleasing manner but a Positively Startling Lack of Brain. The Poem which I am now about to read to you was written by Eeyore, or Myself, in a Quiet Moment. If somebody will take Roo’s bull’s-eye away from him, and wake up Owl, we shall all be able to enjoy it. I call it—POEM.”

    This was it.

    Christopher Robin is going.
    At least I think he is.
    Nobody knows.
    But he is going—
    I mean he goes
    (To rhyme with “knows”)
    Do we care?
    (To rhyme with “where”)
    We do
    Very much.
    (I haven’t got a rhyme for that
    “is” in the second line yet.
    (Now I haven’t got a rhyme for
    bother. Bother.)
    Those two bothers will have to
    rhyme with each other Buther.
    The fact is this is more difficult
    than I thought,
    I ought—
    (Very good indeed)
    I ought
    To begin again,
    But it is easier
    To stop.
    Christopher Robin, good-bye,
    And all your friends
    I mean all your friend
    (Very awkward this, it keeps
    going wrong)
    Well, anyhow, we send
    Our love

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