Terrible Poetry

It’s time for some poetry. Some really bad poetry. Terrible poetry. It’s the weekly challenge run by the wonderful Chelsea Owens. This weeks rules are

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Topic: Birth. Childbirth’s a bit high on my mind, or the birthday of this contest, or …go where the prompt takes you.
    For kicks, let’s also do a limerick.
  2. The traditional Length of a limerick is five lines: AABBA, in anapestic meter.
  3. Limericks totally Rhyme. See the line above this one for direction.
  4. Make it terrible! Seriously; that’s the point of the whole contest.
  5. Keep the Rating PG/PG-13ish (or cleaner).

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (November 22) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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My effort is not much about Birth but I did spell out BIRTH down the side though. It might be hard to believe but I did clean this poem up quite a bit….

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Boris Johnson was asked how many kids he has fathered

It wasn’t a surprise when the posh fart spectacularly dithered

Rich entitled Eton Boy has had fingers in many pies

Trouble is that people are starting to see through his web of lies

He may well have the last laugh by making us all Brexit buggered

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This is the last piece Terrible Poetry until they start of 2020. Chelsea has far more pressing matters to focus on. Wishing you all the best my friend.

First letter

Friday has been distinctly chilly especially when you go running in shorts and T-shirt. Some muppet decided to wash his running kit 5 minutes before the run. Not good planning. So yes chilly. Now take the first letter away from chilly and that was the other feature of today’s run. Distinctly hilly. As many of the rivers have flooded the only paths which are passable are those which are on the high ground. So before I got stuck into today’s work I needed to defrost and sooth the aching muscles. I was that cold that when I got into the piping hot bath – it went cold within a couple of minutes. Sitting in a cold bath when your cold is not good. Not good at all.

Been asked about the subliminal message in this weeks Terrible Poetry content. See what the first letter of each line spells….

Terrible Poetry

It’s time for some poetry . Some Terrible Poetry. This week the wonderful Chelsea Owens has set the following task.

Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. Since it’s coming up on my mind, at least, this week’sTopic is the commercialism of Christmas. Man, I hate it.
  2. Everyone’s having sales, sales, sales! Keep the Length to 20% off your usual poem. Hurry now; supplies are running out!
  3. Rhyme if you were smart and purchased the name brand version back in July. Otherwise, you’re stuck with the cheap, knock-off variety that might have been recorded in Chinese.
  4. Make it terrible! Make Hasbro put out a recall for all verse you may have ever produced in the last decade, plus offer psychological recompense for the ten years before that.
  5. Christmas is family time -ish. We’d like to make people assume so, anyway, as we advertise the spirit right out of them. Anyway, keep things G-Rated or friendlier.

An offer like this won’t last forever! You have till 8:00 a.m. MSTnext Friday (November 15) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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For inspiration I sat down and watched a Peppa Pig Christmas episode. No commercialism there.

I’ve been told off for making these always political. So this week no direct reference but I can’t rule out a subliminal message. Can you spot it.

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Blimey the adverts have started already

Only just done Halloween I’m so unready

Reindeers standing where the tinned soup used to be

I only want some food for dinner not a giant inflatable Christmas tree

Santa hats seem to have replaced my usual supply of herbal tea

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Jingle bells bellows out on loop from the supermarket speakers

Ornamental singing elves more important than things like carpet sweepers

Hilarious festive ties are everywhere all playing an out of tune carol

Nearly every aisle is full of wine and spirits and lager by the barrel

Suddenly the only cheese you can buy must contain apricots and cranberries

Over priced selection boxes become the only source of confectionaries

Nuts by the bucket full which is no good for delicate tummies like that of Gary’s

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Is it too much to ask for one single deodorant not those annoying Old Spice Gift sets

Suddenly on every aisle corner you see stacks of Home Alone Video Cassettes

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All the shop staff are forced to be decked out as Santa’s little helpers

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Gone are the discounts as it’s full pricing in all its splendour

It’s a crime not to stock up for that big day in December

To much much for me as it’s still just pigging November

Terrible Poetry

It’s time to try and lighten the mood.

Let’s go for a bit of Terrible Poetry hosted by the wonderful Chelsea Owens. This week is the 50th Contest. The rules are

  1. The Topic is FIFTY!
  2. The Length is FIFTY WORDS!
  3. Rhyming is not necessary. It’s already difficult enough to write only 50 words, Daddy-o.
  4. The terribleness is fifty -I mean, Make it terrible! 50-year-old members of the 50+ community will want to deluge you with 50 minutes of 50 historical events from 1969 (50 years ago).
  5. Let’s keep the Rating at PG or cleaner, by golly!

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (November 8) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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I promised to get Blancmange into this weeks poem before we knew the subject. Oh dear.

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I like Blancmange but it has more than 50 calories

I have 50 really annoying allergies

I only have 50 hairs on my sad old head

Can’t get any sleep on my 50 quid bed

No money so have to be thrifty

Bugger I feel like I am over FIFTY

Terrible Poetry

It’s Terrible Poetry time thanks to our very own Chelsea Owens. This week the guidelines are

  1. Our Topic is Halloween. Write something SCARY!
  2. As is usual, the Length is up to you.
  3. Rhyming is also up to you. Frighten us with what you do.
  4. Just Make it terrible! Make the very souls of the Wal-mart imps moan in agony and terror at the thought of your verses.
  5. The Rating’s fine at PG-13 or cleaner.

You have till midnight of All Hallow’s Eve, 12:00 a.m. MSTnext Friday morning (November 1) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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I did promise to incorporate some pre-determined words into the poem but to my eternal shame I’ve completely forgotten them. SORRY.

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The moon is full

It’s time for blood on the wool

Halloween terror

Your in the wrong place, a deadly error

Knifes sharpen

The atmosphere slowly darkens

The clock ticks

While the madman plays his tricks

This is sick

As bad as the worst horror flick

Witches potion

An unpredictable explosion

Straight from hell

Too horrific for Slasher Motel

Frankenstein creation

A Poltergeist apparition

Beyond X rated

The result is pure evil hatred

All hope is forsake

Dads been trying to bake a SPONGE CAKE

Terrible Poetry

It’s time for Terrible Poetry in the wonderful hands of Chelsea Owens. This week the parameters are….

Howdy, partners! Welcome to this here terrible poetry contest. We at the ranch have been rounding up bad poetry fer 48 weeks now.

Ready to rodeo? You’ll wanna read a run-down here. Then, saddle up and get yer lasso ready fer fun!

Here some ‘spifics for this round:

  1. The Topic‘s The Old West. Or, do The New West. Heck, do Midwest if that’s how you ride. Think of a song to sing on a campfire-smoke night, a shout to yell at those darn coyotes, or a rhyme to a cowboy from his sweetheart back home.
  2. Length is up to you, but many a cowpoke will doze off mid-ride if the trail gets too long.
  3. Rhymin’s up to you, partner.
  4. Most importan’ly, Make ‘er terrible. I don’t wanna see yer sorry hide back here till it is.
  5. Many a rough-rider can have a rough tongue, but sometimes lady folk read this blog. Keep yer comments to a civilized PG-13.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (October 25) to submit a poem.

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Out in the dust field prairies of Dewsbury and Pontefract

The Yorkie badlands with rhubarb laden scrub tracks

Where scary predators stalk lonely unsuspecting riders

Those ferrets are deadly once in your trouser insiders

Old Cowboys on the trail for one last ride

Trying to avoid those wannabe Bonnie and Clyde’s

Clinging to a dying way of life like a stubborn Rooster Cogburn

Taking those pills for the constant bake bean farts and heartburn

Singing stories of the wonders of this cowboy lifestyles

While fighting the urge to scratch those lingering piles

Carrying the sweetheart photo of the long lost cowgirl

Forgetting she left you for an Accountant who could afford a pearl

All the ranches and rodeos have long since closed

Now 24 hour Big Macs are juxtaposed

Getting back in the saddle you do it for glory and the life which is true

But really the only excitement left is a solitary campfire game of Buckaroo

Out in the dust field prairies of Dewsbury and Pontefract

The Yorkie badlands with rhubarb laden scrub tracks

Where scary predators stalk lonely unsuspecting riders

Those ferrets are deadly once in your trouser insiders

Old Cowboys on the trail for one last ride

Trying to avoid those wannabe Bonnie and Clyde’s

Clinging to a dying way of life like a stubborn Rooster Cogburn

Taking those pills for the constant bake bean farts and heartburn

Singing stories of the wonders of this cowboy lifestyles

While fighting the urge to scratch those lingering piles

Carrying the sweetheart photo of the long lost cowgirl

Forgetting she left you for an Accountant who could afford a pearl

All the ranches and rodeos have long since closed

Now 24 hour Big Macs are juxtaposed

Getting back in the saddle you do it for glory and the life which is true

But really the only excitement left is a campfire game of Buckaroo

Terrible Poetry

Yes it’s almost the weekend so it must be time for a bit of terrible poetry via Chelsea Owens great weekly competition. This week given the subject it’s going to be virtually impossible to skew this round to the worlds numpty politicians. So the rules are:

  1. The type of poetry I’m interested in is a tanka. Colleen Chesebro runs this form (and a few others) every week for her popular Tanka Tuesday challenge.
    A tanka is very much like a haiku, but uses the format 5/7/5/7/7.
    On top of that, our Topic is PUMPKIN SPICE.
  2. What’s the length? I already told you: it’s a syllabic pattern of 5/7/5/7/7.
  3. Rhyming is not allowed. Scented candles are.
  4. The most important part is to make it terrible. Madame Chesebro herself must apply to WordPress to have my site banned from the internet, burned, and buried with cloves to ensure we never attempt to write tanka poetry again.
  5. Pumpkins and their harvest seasonings can stay rated at PG or tastier.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (October 4) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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Had to look up Pumpkin Spice. Never had it before. Was also tempted to interpret tastier as X rated – but I’d better not.

Terrible Poetry

It’s Terrible Poetry time as ever thanks to the Grand Bard – Chelsea Owens. This week the rules are:

  1. It’s time for another Acrostic Poem. Let’s pick a Topic of Celebrities.
    An acrostic is simple; write a word (say, like the celebrity’s name or favorite habit) down the left side, and then do a haphazard job of filling in with your poem.
  2. Length should be dependent on the word you pick, and how verbose you feel at each letter.
  3. Rhyme if you wish. Don’t if you wish.
  4. Make it terrible!! Make our eyes beg our brain to stop reading, just stop. Please; they would rather read grocery tabloids than whatever you just churned out.
  5. Celebrities and their choices can get a bit racy, so we’ll up the Rating to PG-13.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (September 27) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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Arrogant

liar

extremist

x-rated

a charlatan

New Yorker

deluded

egotistical

racist

Brexit will make him millions

ought to make his pals billions

remain was always his position

it changed to suit his self mission

self deluded craving celebrity privileged Eton boy

Destined to play as Nero with his new burning country toy

england should be for the English he proudly shouts

privately whispering he’s actually not from these whereabouts

Funding his lovers and friends with public money

easily avoiding the rules like some corrupt Easter Bunny

fibbing and lying is his way to con the masses

flippantly poking fun at those from the working classes

evading visits from the police to one of his shouting matches

lovers are kept quiet maybe with gifts paid for from our hard earned taxes

Jovial and bumbling are what the media laps up

only reporting the fake image and never about how he is so corrupt

he said he couldn’t live on his huge ministerial wage

no thought for us as he takes us back to the Victorian Age

so a man without principles or any human decency

only interested in one person and slayer of our democracy

not a man of the people just a wannabe celebrity member of the aristocracy

Terrible Poetry

It’s that time again for hopefully some downright cheesy terrible Poetry thanks to Chelsea Owens. This week she has set the following challenge.

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Here are the specifics for this week:

  1. The Topic is free-versing about secondhand sales. Ever been to a yard sale? Garage sale? Flea market? Write about it; flow about it.
  2. Looking for a certain Length? Let’s go with fewer than 150 words. Final offer.
  3. Rhyming is not allowed. This is free verse poetry, people. Curb your instincts.
  4. Above all, make it terrible. e.e. cummings must feel such a shock from your literary efforts that he vows to capitalize his name just to make you stop.
  5. Let’s keep the rating PG or cleaner. What sort of flea market are you going to, anyway?

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (September 20) to submit a poem the good ladies blog.

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I got carried away and the first version was an epic unfortunately way beyond 150 words so this is the heavily butchered version 2.

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Wandering round the stalls and jammed full car boots

Sellers imploring you to hand over your hard earned loot

In one car boot an autobiography from Donald Trump

Read that, no way rather have a session with a stomach pump

Then a special offer on CDs from U2 and Bono

Give you money for that, you got more chance of seeing a flying Dodo

Then a car boot with a portrait of a politician, Jacob Rees Mogg

I’d rather have my leg humped by a rabid flee ridden Rottweiler Dog

Some numpty called Farage is selling knocked off cheap French red wine

He bought the bottles with loose change from his European Pension goldmine

Then finally a chance to buy the actual Boris Johnson our countries so called leader

I bought him for 10p he’s now planted pretending to be a Japanese ornamental Cedar.

Terrible Poetry

It’s time to shake the very fabric of time and space with a bit of Terrible Poetry hosted by Chelsea Owens. This week the challenge is:

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Infinitely improbable, you say? Don’t panic! Read my basic outline on what every pan-dimensional being expects from bad poetry in my Blogger’s Guide to the Terribleness. Aim for a little lower than self-throttling by one’s own intestine; a little higher than Vogon.

Here are the specifics for this side of the galaxy:

  1. The Topic is towels. Do you know where yours is?
  2. The Length is up to the budding artist (you).
  3. Rhyming is optional.
  4. Just make it terrible. As you clear your throat for a recitation, the entire Vogon fleetmust flee in …well, in an organized, bureaucratic fashion after completing the necessary paperwork.
  5. How risqué can a towel get? I wouldn’t dare ask Adams that, but I think we can keep things PG or friendlier.

You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (September 13) to submit a poem to Chelsea.

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My friend stayed at a Trump Hotel and pinched one of the towels

When the President finds out he will give him one of those scowls

On the Vice Presidents visit to Ireland he stayed at another Trump Hotel

I wonder if he had a towel in his bag when he bid the hotel farewell

Now the army has to bunk at Trumps Golf Resort in Scotland

Hundreds of fluffy white ones will go missing as mistakes are not learned

Poor Donald looses so many towels I hope he has a good supplier

Probably from China but he won’t know as he is such a crap buyer

And I wonder as Trump played golf while Hurricane Dorian continued to magnify

What was he thinking as he dried his grip with one of the finest towels money can buy