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