Chelsea Owens has bought to an end her weekly Terrible Poetry competition because, instead of getting more terrible with each passing week, we started to sound more like people who were actually literate and punny. This is my final entry and tribute.
Bring a ring o’ poeters,
A pocket full of poseurs,
A tissue (of terribility) at issue
And we all fell down.
A bunch of us numpties, with almighty gall,
Us proletarian-lumpy had a great fail
All Chelsea’s exhortations to fracture our pens
Ended in the dumpster time and again.
But the fighter inside ‘er will eventually out
Back will come her brain and give the spiders
Gout from the sun-dried tomatoes that on her pizza reign,
And, Owen to her zeitgeist, she’ll re-rack us once again.
Six Crooked Highways 
I agree with the sympathies. Mayhap in the fullness of time, fair maid may changeth her mind?
Loves Labourings Lost.
Farewell beloved crack’d verse,
‘Tis indeed terrible sad,
I rant, rail, inconsolably curse-
Oops, sorry, my bad
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I was disappointed when I learned the terrible poetry was ending. I love reading the post. A grande finale, Doug.
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Thanks, Robbie, but I suspect Ms. O has something else diabolical fermenting in her kitchen. 🙂
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Glad to hear it.
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Diabolical? Me? I do not know to what you refer.
Speaking of proper, this is much too well-written to win at terribility, Doug.
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Innocence of diabolicality? This from the woman who condemned her husband to sing a rap song narrowly shorter than War and Peace. The prosecution rests, m’lud. And of course, as you’ve noticed, in recent times I have put a fie upon naked terribility and opted for the fun. Fare thee well, Ms. O.
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Don’t write us off so soon, Sir Jacquier!
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