from the annual Julia Moore bad poetry contest...

Bad Poetry Excerpts The Associated Press

From "The Muse Denuded" by Anthony Sutton, of Jackson, Mich., who won third place in the Julia A. Moore Poetry Parody Contest: "Old Julia Moore set out one day/ To serve the world her po - e - tray/ She scribbled hard and long they say/ And self-published it without delay/ Now critics fussed and mussed around/ And Mark Twain said she'd added pounds/ Some folks laughed and some children cried to see her/ melancholy sounds/ In local towns and villages though, you'll find her musings still/ renowned/ She wrote of death, I guess, a bit/ But always ended in a cheery fit/ She took on misery with her razor wit/ And ignored her critics' silly snits." --- From "The Lady of Shallotte" (rhymes with afloat) by Dave Summers, of Ann Arbor, Mich., who won the Peoples' Choice Award: "Who or which or what can denote/ The Lady of Shallotte?/ Does she sometimes visit a circus or zoo?/ Does she paddle about in a rented canoe or a BOAT/ The Lady of Shallotte?/ Does she crochet her sweaters from reprocessed yarn?/ Does she have several sheep that she keeps in a barn or a COTE,/ The Lady of Shallotte?/ When painting a picture, does she upset her easel?/ When she's mad at her mate, does she call him a weasel or a STOAT/ The Lady of Shallotte?/ When she's all by herself, does she covertly smoke?/ On election day, does she quite often forget to VOTE/ The Lady of Shallotte?" --- From "To A Bugge" (best read with a Scottish accent) by Sutton, who also won the second place prize: "Wha ha!?!/ A teensie buggie currillt up besite my bazemint pottie?/ Did ye fell victim t'ma lethal sprays meant t'kill all ye vermin who/ dare inside my hoose to trottie?/ I sees a chunkit' meal besites thy dessicated frame/ Twas laced, ye knows, wi' killing likker. What a shame!/ Did ye consume th' dire, dour an'deadlie poison greedily/ In hopes that it'd sate ye speedily?/ Or did ye jus' bloonder by and get entrapped/ As the purply gas from the can o'Raid unwrapped?/ Och! Ha'my hort does bleed ta' see thee/ Curllitt up like a small dead insect unseemly/ With those sixteen teensie clawfers/ Clenched against th' fate that life had offered./ For sure, whiles' y'were an ugly vermin'/ Now brought low by lethal fluorocarbin."

-- Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), June 05, 2000

Answers

that last one was really nice. I liked that one. Very well. It is so much more uplifting than articles about genetically engineered wheat, and such. I can picture the scene in m'mind: the small creature on its back with tiny legs curled in as clutching a beloved pupa, a look of bewilderment in its now vacant compound eyes.

'Tis enough to bring a tear to the eyes, and mucous to the nose. A touching tribute indeed to an oft forgotten vermit.

-- gene (ekbaker@essex1.com), June 05, 2000.

Kinda reminds me of Edgar A. Guest. I love those old english style poems. Reminds me of my grandparents and on up the line. Cool.

-- (sis@home.zzz), June 05, 2000.

Sorry about the lack of formatting.

-- Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), June 05, 2000.