Oscar Wilde quote: “All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.” Maybe so, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.
A few days ago, in pondering the possibility of posting a post of putrid poetry for BAD POETRY DAY (August 18th), I took the precaution of reviewing a decade (my blog began in 2009) of August posts to make sure I hadn’t previously perpetrated poetic perfidy on unsuspecting readers on this day. Unluckily for you , I found that I’ve never posted a post on Aug. 18, so we’re good to go….make that, I’m good to go. Or bad to go. You have to stay, because if you don’t, you’ll break my poor art — and that wouldn’t be polite.
Perhaps you think that my calling bad poetry an art
doesn’t pass the smell test, like calling passing gas a fart.
Not to put you on the spot, but was that a bad-ass poem, or what?
Granted, it has a perfect rhyme, but is that such a crime?
As bad poetry, I still say it’s sublime….speaking of which, I’ll have you know there are actually high-class contests to determine how low a bad poem can get, such as:
With that behind us, it’s time we get back to sum-more of my cool august poetry:
Hickory, dickory, dock,
The doc ran up the rock.
The rock was more slippery
Than doc’s hickory dickory,
So down he fell, which cleaned his clock.
A Whig party wig
Is my saving grace —
It diverts your gaze
Away from my face.
I WILL ONLY STOOP SO LOW
I don’t do windows,
I don’t do lawns —
But when I doo-doo,
I do do johns.
And with that, I bid you a fond adieu-doo.