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

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Yeratel:

--- Quote from: LizW65 on September 23, 2007, 01:36:55 PM ---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.

--- End quote ---
Julia Moore is definitely right up there with the worst of the worst that managed to actually get into print and sell books. To quote from the reviewers: "The Sweet Singer's verse is concerned to a large extent with total abstinence and violent death -- the great Chicago fire, the railway disaster of Ashtabula, the Civil War, the yellow fever epidemic in the South. She sings death by drowning, by smallpox, by fits, accidents by lightning-stroke and sleigh. "Julia is worse than a Gatling gun," wrote Bill Nye; "I have counted twenty-one killed and nine wounded, in the small volume she has given to the public." She also greatly relishes normal infant mortality, especially in cases where the little victim possesses blue eyes and curling golden hair; but in her celebrations of the centenary of American independence she strikes the sterner Kipling note more than once. "

Blaze:
Toe Weasels
by: Blaze

Toe Weasels are
the worst by far
when they infest your brand new car.

Toe Weasels can
by fate or plan
make shadow shapes in your tan.

Toe Weasels stalk
you when you talk
on your cell and make it squawk.

Toe Weasels dance
in your pants
giving you a funny prance.

There may be other vermin
For example, the ermine,
That can make you go a squirmin’

But far worse than having measles
Worse by far than sneezles,
are the dread Toe Weasels.

Ms Linsenmayer knows
All about the woes
Of dread Weasel Toes.

Ms Duck:
I could never match
such glorious prose
with hand on my breast
or finger up my nose
I can but vainly reply
with old classic I knows

the was a haut lady Rian
Who hypnotized Vor scion
the little deffective
thinks hes a detective
he shall soon be fed to the lion

Bob:
Erato, lounging by a spring in her Olympic splendor
Received a message from Azan, by turtle dove he sent her
A most heartfelt entreaty, in which he wrote “Dear Mother,
They are abusing your great gift to outdo one another.

For Poetry the times are bad, the standards all have fallen
And angsty black-clothed teenagers now claim it is their callin’
As well as those who foreign are to rules of rhyme and meter,
So please descend and set them straight.” Thuswise he did entreat her.

“Surely he does overstate”, said she, the poet’s Muse
“There’s always been bad poetry—that’s hardly even news”
Still from her spring she stirred herself to see if he spoke sooth,
She cloaked herself from mortal eyes and sought to find the truth.

No sooner from Olympus onto earth had she arrived
Than torrents of bad poetry into her spirit knived.
Omphaloskepsis by the ton from self-obsessive twits
And random words passed off as verse by self-deluded gits.

Amidst the flood there were, she found, a few real poets there
Who battled ‘gainst the rising tide despite growing despair
Immovable as Spartans, they weathered fashion’s scorn
Treasuring Erato’s gift, bestowed when they were born.

“My faithful few, my champions, you will be well rewarded
And honors denied unto you now will one day be accorded.
As for the rest, such logorrhea makes my spirit woozy
But modern tech has just the cure.  Someone hand me an Uzi.”

Blaze:
I wouldlike to award Bob a ribbon for using the word Logorrhea.  Thank you, Bob.

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