Thursday, August 30, 2007

The bunny cycle (a tribute to William McGonagall)

Jared: you bear full responsibility for this post.

One of the threads over on Salon.com's TableTalk forum challenges participants to write a poem as bad as the work of William McGonagall
(arguably the worst poet of all time - to judge for yourself, follow either of these links):
McGonagall poems
McGonagall website )

While I don't think I could ever reach the level of atrociousness that came so easily to McGonagall, it certainly is fun to try. So, I'd like to share with you two of my efforts. Collectively, I think of them as my bunny cycle. For reasons which will be clear below, there will (mercifully) be no more poems in this particular cycle.


Bunnies

I like to see the bunnies romp
They fill me full of joy
And circumstance and lots of pomp
It's like having a bright shiny new toy
But when the bunnies eat the lettuce
I hope they won't forget us
I frolic in the dappled sun
Like Gerald Manley Hopkins
Though really what I want to do
Is dress like Mary Poppins



Fuzzy Bunny
(The Bunny Cycle : Poem # 2)

At times when I'm feeling down and think I should end,
This farce of a life, because everyone looks at me funny.
The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of my little friend
Yes, you've guessed it in one: I'm talking about Hector, my fuzzy bunny.

He has a little hoard of carrots, which in Spanish are called zanahorías,
I used to think he had just one or two, but lately I was surprised to find out how many more he has,
Yes indeed,
Hector is a great friend to me in my hours of need.

Or I should say he used to be because recently a spurned admirer broke into my apartment and there was quite a hullaballoo
The upshot of which was that Hector ended up as part of a delicious bunny stew.
All of which, as I'm sure you can imagine, left me feeling very triste.
So now, if you will excuse me, I think I will go slit my wrists.

2 comments:

gaelstat said...

I would just like to add that, when I wrote the second "poem" earlier today, I was unaware of Owen Wilson's recent suicide attempt. The timing is unfortunate, to say the least. But the last line bears no relation to current events, and I feel nothing but sympathy for Owen Wilson, a funny and talented actor, and his family.

Doc said...

Nope! You're out of the running. McG's poems are classic not just because they were bad, but because he didn't know it.

Giltinan's two poems don't scan,
His rhymes scrape like forks on a pan,
But I proclaim to all Donegal,
He's no William McGonagall,
For Bill couldn't write but Dave can.