Trying, and failing, not to say 'shit'

He's an unpleasant, self-interested, mean-spirited person who should be nowhere near the reins of power and influence. Being unable to vote him out, I decided to attack him swearily, doggerel-style instead...

I.D.S.

I’ve got Irritable Duncan Syndrome,

that nasty little shit

takes pleasure from the harm he does

while getting paid for it.

He’s like Chucky’s dirty uncle,

with tiny nipping teeth,

biting monetary morsels

from those who have the least,

and every time the corporates

pass laws of gain and greed,

he laughs and pumps his evil fist,

sowing devil-sprouting seeds.

His claws, they grasp at benefits,

the Welfare State’s his wallet,

he steals from old and young alike

to line his greasy pockets,

he failed at everything he did,

got everything for free,

now paints the poor as lazy oiks,

spits on their hopes with glee,

so if the touch of I.D.S.

gives you anguish of the bowels,

flush him with the other turds,

and feed him to your flowers.

Stupid George

It's National Poetry Day, so two posts today. This one is a brief response to the T*ry budget and its corporate friendly, let's-suck-up-every-last-drop-of-oil message, delivered with maybe just a whiff of E J Thribb and 'bad poetry' stylings...

Stupid George

Greasy gormless Osborne,
fossil-fuellers’ budget friend,
trying to get us out of the red
by soaking everything in black –
if you want to drill
for gas and oil,
let the North Sea be,
just tap Eric Pickles like a rubber tree –
not only save the poor pork pie,
but get your latex
from a man who needs Playtex,
take his empty pelt and reinflate
to create
a lifeboat for the rising tide.
You can stay outside.

Photo: Greenpeace

Woe, woe, woe, woe, chuckle

William McGonagall is often considered to be the worst poet of all time. Certainly his work was very, very, very bad - painful in fact - but it is still in print (unlike that of many, even most, better poets). So, here's a humorous testimonial of sorts, and if you want to find out about him, this site is a good place to start, but beware... and if you fancy hearing my dulcet tones, there's an audio version here.

The worst poet

William McGonagall, poet, well sorta,
your words are arranged all bang out of order –
like a lab-rabbit tested with neat Estee Lauder,
they make my skin itch and my eyes start to water.

Your metre’s soon lost and the scan starts to falter,
words reversed they are more often than you oughta,
but not cool like Yoda, it disrupts the aorta
like shrapnel embedded by thesaurus slaughter.

Each time you wrote, accidentally wrought a
work that the reader wishes was shorter,
grating like laughter from Janet Street-Porter,
lines way too long as you pack in all the explanatory details but they really should be trimmed to make them much tauter.

But your canon lives on, and in print, repels boarders,
though you spawned awful verse and always ignored all
attempts to advise, edit or cordon
off what you penned in a cage with a warder.

To allow it free rein risks civil disorder,
more terrible even than Sauron in Mordor,
ironically liked in peculiar quarters,
The Tay Bridge Disaster, read out once floored a

bison, while Pele, in earshot, soon scored a
hat-trick of own-goals, allegedly roared a
‘please make it stop, ref’ as each stanza bored a
hole in the soul of anyone caught a

half-mile or less from where a recorder
in a bunker broadcast Richard Pigott the Forger
til McGonagall’s great-great grand-daughter
killed it with cluster-bombs fired from a mortar.

Silly conversation spawns humorous poem

Talking rubbish on facebook, the concept of the 'great musical prune' was born. A challenge was set. I responded in doggerel form because, well, why not...

The Great Musical Prune

Roll up, roll up,
the Great Musical Prune,
throw him a farthing,
he’ll sing you a tune.

Make it a sixpence
his wrinkles will quiver,
he’ll spit out his stone
and strike chords on a zither.

Flush like it’s pay-day?
Well, bung him a shilling,
his dried plummy vocals
a laxative filling.

A florin or half-crown,
he’ll manifest bacon,
a devil on horseback
that you’ve just awakened.

A sovereign pound
and he’ll stew your compote,
his orchestral manoeuvres
now sticky and hot.

But if it’s a guinea,
beware of a quarrel,
he loosens not only bowels
but bras, knees and morals.

From bad to verse

Along with some poetical chums, I'm currently working my way through these exercises as poem-a-day prompts. Yesterday's was "Write the worst poem you possibly can. Now edit it and make it even worse."

So I did. As did others.

What was interesting was (a) how difficult this was - the urge to avoid 'bad' poetry is strong, and (b) once achieved, the results are still good (in their own way) because they are funny, and that is positive. A lot of humour is about the unexpected, the disjointed, the out-of-place-or-time and so on, so maybe this isn't too surprising - and creating some mirth has to be a good thing, so maybe no need to analyse further. Here's my attempt:

Bad sex poem
[My submission to the ‘erotica’ section of this year’s Vogon Eisteddfod]

Jagged buttocks warts clash
Clash; clash clash; clash
Clash CLASH clash.
Oh, compartments! Look!
Oh, oh dumpling’s! Lovelier blancmange
From a packet. NO!
And some plastic sponge.
It wobbles.
I can see a cauliflower.
Woe! WOE!
My vegetable won’t grow –
WITHOUT some gravy.
Greeeen.
Cleverly I say ‘noirmange’
Now you see!
Yes, they are French but opposite.
That is clever so you like it. Vert!
Oui! Non! Like that.
But better.
Desire akin to that penned a few years ago by Alan Titchmarsh winning an award that’s somehow appropriate here but not the one he would have wanted I think it is over.