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Shall I Compare Thee To A Mooseburger aka The Bad Poetry Thread
Tech L. Me:
Wish Granted!
Here's the bad poetry thread, whether you write it yourself or find it online, show us the worst of the worst. :)
Attempted Assassination of the Queen
William McGonagall (yes, an actual poet)
God prosper long our noble Queen,
And long may she reign!
Maclean he tried to shoot her,
But it was all in vain.
For God He turned the ball aside
Maclean aimed at her head;
And he felt very angry
Because he didn't shoot her dead.
There's a divinity that hedges a king,
And so it does seem,
And my opinion is, it has hedged
Our most gracious Queen.
Maclean must be a madman,
Which is obvious to be seen,
Or else he wouldn't have tried to shoot
Our most beloved Queen.
Victoria is a good Queen,
Which all her subjects know,
And for that God has protected her
From all her deadly foes.
She is noble and generous,
Her subjects must confess;
There hasn't been her equal
Since the days of good Queen Bess.
Long may she be spared to roam
Among the bonnie Highland floral,
And spend many a happy day
In the palace of Balmoral.
Because she is very kind
To the old women there,
And allows them bread, tea, and sugar,
And each one get a share.
And when they know of her coming,
Their hearts feel overjoy'd,
Because, in general, she finds work
For men that's unemploy'd.
And she also gives the gipsies money
While at Balmoral, I've been told,
And, mind ye, seldom silver,
But very often gold.
I hope God will protect her
By night and by day,
At home and abroad,
When she's far away.
May He be as a hedge around her,
As he's been all along,
And let her live and die in peace
Is the end of my song.
Blaze:
O' moose so furry and so brown,
Knobby kneed, came in to town,
Came in to town during a blizzard.
Came in to see the Dresden Wizard.
O' moose, he shook his head wide antled
Wizard with his duster mantled
At McNally's they hoisted beer
Discussing matters very deer.
A sorcerer had met the moose
Telling him he had to choose
Whether he or his sweet wife
Would be losing moosely life.
Moose came to seek sweet reason
From the Wizard, in winter season
Moose he wanted both life and love
And help from he who wore one glove.
"I did not know a moose could marry,
No evil sorcerer," quoth Harry
"Will end you or your moosely spouse.
Take me north to smite the louse."
So, north they went, by train caboose,
Harry Dresden and hairy Moose,
Rode in the last car not to drain
Or blow up technology on the train.
In the north the Missus Moose
Held by the sorcerer in a noose,
Wept until her nose, it ran.
Green and slimy on that man.
The sorcerer so evil with wards all around
had not a tissue to be found.
He caught moose mucus in a pail
and left green mounds along his trail.
"Which is worser?" Moose asked Harry.
"I find boogers pretty scary.
"A sorcerer, push to shove, is just a guy
"And I am fast, and smart and spry."
Sorcerer in his hide out planned and plotted
Over the cow moose which he'd gotted.
His evil mind began to churn
"You, my deer, I'll taxiderm."
He hoisted cloven hoofs aloft,
While the moose sneezed and coughed,
And while it caused her some back pain,
It also helped her sinuses drain.
That is when the moose espied
The evil mage and moosely bride.
Harry on the moose back mounted
The sorcerer had not upon counted.
Blasting rod and and glowing staff,
Shield bracelet and raucous laugh.
Mighty moose with heart so large
Courage pair prepared to charge.
Mrs. Moose, she gave a sneeze,
That knocked the sorcerer to his knees.
Harry followed with a spell
That sent him running back to hell.
Moose wife lowered to the ground,
Gratitude flowed all around,
As she thanked him for her life,
as Moose thanked him for his wife.
Happy Harry home did head,
To cuddle into his own bed,
To be inside his own house,
With Mister, Bob and his dog, Mouse.
To Jim Butcher, with love from Pam
val:
Ok. This one is in honor of Rob MacDonald...
THE TALE OF McMORRIN
-or-
MERRY WIDOW’S DELIGHT
By Morgan Bloodaxe
This is the Tale of McMorrin.
Whose fortune was lost in the war, and
Lacking money for plaid, he spent all that he had
To purchase an extra large sporran.
Now, regimentally clad, he wasn’t half bad,
And the fair ladies’ hearts were set pounding.
But the gents were aghast at the shadow he cast,
Which, even at noon, was astounding.
He made churchmen and husbands uneasy;
So, in an honest effort to please, he
wore his sporran just right, at the most modest height,
Which was somewhere down under his kneesies.
Yes, this is the Tale of McMorrin;
And lucky the day he was bornin’.
For the fates gave him then somewhat more than most men,
And ever since then he’s been growin’.
Now, with poverty comes great despair;
Almost more than McMorrin could bear.
But he girded his loins, for though lacking in coins,
He still had some valuables there.
Then he called on the Widow Felicity,
Who was as merry as a widow could wish to be;
And after six nights of carnal delights
He put her in charge of publicity.
Soon all the merry young widows, adorin’.
Were heaping praise on the peerless McMorrin—
And more gold in his purse than a dry man has thirst,’
For it’s that kind of fame that makes fortunes.
So the years flickered past, all a-fleeting.
For McMorrin all good years, exceeding.
For the Scotsman had found Endless Wealth and Renown
Are merely a matter of breeding.
Then, to the Tale of McMorrin, an ending:
He died. Elderly, wealthy, and grinning.
Yes, he died in the night with his pride at its height,
And broke three widow’s hearts beyond mending.
At his funeral the tears fell in showers,
And he lay in a forest of flowers.
All the widows so grieved, yet could hardly believe
Even death could have toppled his tower.
On his coffin of marble and slate,
The Great McMorrin was sculptured in state.
Then they dug him right down to six feet under ground.
And on second thought took him to eight…
Since the loss of the peerless McMorrin,
Those merry widows just aren’t, anymore, and
They keep watch at his grave, and they endlessly pray
The Resurrection will quickly restore him.
(How sad!)
Now, ladies, put an ending to all your distress!
A modest secret I’m bound to confess:
I’m like my Uncle McMorrin, (only a little bit more), and
…I’m sure we can work out the rest!
Yeratel:
Topping even Vogon poetry, the title of Worst Poem Of All Time has been conferred upon William Topaz McGonagall's The Tay Bridge Disaster.
Follow the link,
And see what you think.
http://poetry.about.com/od/19thcpoets/a/mcgonagall.htm
LizW65:
Follow this link to read some of Julia A. Moore, AKA "The Sweet Singer of Michigan":
http://www.wmich.edu/english/txt/Moore/
Mark Twain, among others, found her stuff hysterically bad.
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