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Shall I Compare Thee To A Mooseburger aka The Bad Poetry Thread

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Ms Duck:
in this place, a tavern called Mac's
dwelled a base of poets eating snacks
a wizard name Harry
chose not to tarry
yelling "what next, a penguin playing sax?!"

Ms Duck:
In this game, we must get more involve'
for this truth, our sacred selves resolve
weird is on part one eighty
our thread a bit less weighty
a problem only more poets will solve

LavinChen:
To a Young Ass
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge


Poor little foal of an oppressèd race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled spirits hath dismayed,
That never thou dost sport along the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
"Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes"?
Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain
To see thy wretched mother's shortened chain?
And truly, very piteous is her lot --
Chained to a log within a narrow spot,
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

Poor Ass! they master should have learnt to show
Pity -- best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives like thee,
Half famished in a land of Luxury!
How askingly its footsteps hither bend!
It seems to say, "And have I then one friend?"
Innocent foal! thou poor despised forlorn!
I hail thee Brother -- spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast!

Blaze:
The few the proud
The poetic'ly inclined
Doom'd not to be read out loud
Tho' intricately rhymed.

Whose world sense be skew'd
Who would rather
Be kind than feud
and see more poets gather

(The Duck wants me to draw a nude,
and so would Ol' Dan Rather.)

Blaze:
The above poem is called:  Ode to a Derailed Plot Rhyme, and is dedicated to my kitten, and her need to run across my keyboard.

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