While posting late one stormy night, the strangest thing occurred,
It filled me with a kind of fright, which bordered the absurd.
A bolt of lightning struck my home while I was online.
This jolt of power through the bone has altered my poor mind.
Now it seems that when I type, I’m stricken with a curse.
My normal words of common tripe ~ I now must write in verse.
I beg thee fellow dopers ~ this group I stand in awe,
Post advice in rhyming prose ~ cure this phenomenon.
If your words are true and wry, my response will be swift.
I’ll choose the best sound reply, and send a little gift.
So help me with my mental health, the goodness I will reap.
I’m not a man of great wealth, so expect the prize is cheap.
The trick to cure this loathsome curse from whence your bad verse oozes
Is try to stomach a harsh glassful of different types of boozes:
Som gin, some rye, some scotch, some wine, some vodka and some whiskey
Will help your brain regain it’s train and make your rhyming jones less frisky!
This dilema of yours seems to be quite tricky.
Allow me, if you will, to find a solution less icky.
Throw away you’re pills, they’ll cure no ills,
the answer doth lay in he who kills.
Track him down, then at length,
then you’ll find the strength,
to know and find his rhyme and find his reason,
to lose this affliction as the Time lost the season.
I’m not a poet, and I surely do know it, but on this we can all agree;
A talent such as yours will open many doors in your career, you can plainly see.
Writing in verse keeps you from being terse. Flowery language is definately your friend.
Your writing’s not a pest, so go out, do your best and hope that your sickness doesn’t end.
I’ll have you know this rhyming thing, at first it is quite fetching.
But I shared it with a group this morn and now they’re all kvetching.
Production has suffered greatly, been halved by exactly two.
When asked who was responsible, I pointed back at you.
Thank you my friends the kind words, I do appreciate,
But with regret, they do not help my current mental state.
Your replies, insightful, wise, made me laugh out loud,
Keep it up, I need the help ~ I know you’ll do me proud.
Good Doctor Jackson did suggest a second jolt of power,
A brand-new PC lightning rod was installed within the hour,
Contacts in place upon my face, here now I sit and wait,
A clear and sunny forecast determining my fate.
Daithi Lacha kindly gave a solution somewhat less drastic
A drink of each with Newfie Screech, my muscles are now spastic
As for the cure, I can’t be sure, I hope it will deliver,
If this keeps up I’ll surely be ~ in need of a new liver.
The Axe for thrills said, “Toss the pills,” ~ a sobriety adoption.
No friggen way! The meds must stay ~ for me that’s not an option.
My buddy lieu, regret, I do ~ your output loss today.
But if your aim is “Who’s to blame?” ~ please look the other way.
As for the rest, you are the best. Thanks for your replies,
That is why I love this place, and will until I dies.
It occurs to me, that there may be,
An even easier solution,
Simply say these words today,
To begin your devolution:
(I’ve marked these words in bold italics,
To help any not-so-smart-alecks)
Will you choose, the ***silver ** * shoes,
With hints of ***orange ** * and ***purple ** * hues,
The ***challenge ** * here I’m sure is clear,
For in every ***month ** * of every year,
These words have never had a rhyme,
(Even for poets of talent sublime)
So if you use them in strategic places,
The curse shall vanish from your bad graces.
TellMeI’mNotCrazy ~ Your response I applaud,
But to put those words in very post would seem a little odd.
If I were, you must concur, most folks would think I’m crazy,
Too late for me, you’ll all agree ~ but the answer remains hazy.
The past holds the key to the future and offers wisdom to the present,
When all seems lost the Modernists like Pound and Eliot are a godsend,
Because they cured the world of perfect rhyme, strict form and sonnets,
Shot them, burnt them, and puliverised them on the bonnets,
of their prime vehicle, humming with the occasional
subtle rhythmic rumblings of
Free verse.
Once you’ve evolved with them to that state,
All that remains is cutting back on the CR and LFs, and
Quickly borders dissolve between prozaic verse and stylistic proze; lo and behold, you’ll have found your cure – you will no longer endure the pain of rhyme. However, you must take care not to advance any further. Because after a long period of Modernist rule, a vulgar tradition has reverted to one of the most ancient and popular forms,
And shizzle-my-nizzle, you catchin’ my drizzle,
Yo’ crew has smuggled in ol’ dirty rap,
and beats, assonant repeats, alliterative retreats,
Are firmly back on the poetical map.
The past holds the key to the future and offers wisdom to the present,
When all seems lost the Modernists like Pound and Eliot are a godsend,
Because they cured the world of perfect rhyme, strict form and sonnets,
Shot them, burnt them, and puliverised them on the bonnets,
of their prime vehicle, humming with the occasional
subtle rhythmic rumblings of
Free verse.
Once you’ve evolved with them to that state,
All that remains is cutting back on the CR and LFs, and
Quickly borders dissolve between prozaic verse and stylistic proze; lo and behold, you’ll have found your cure – you will no longer endure the pain of rhyme. However, you must take care not to advance any further. Because after a long period of Modernist rule, a vulgar tradition has reverted to one of the most ancient and popular forms,
And shizzle-my-nizzle, you catchin’ my drizzle,
Yo’ crew has smuggled in ol’ dirty rap,
and beats, assonant repeats, alliterative retreats,
Are firmly back on the poetical map.
In the comfort of others, you seek your relief, from the burden of the verse
but I would submit, that despite your grief, that it hardly resembles a curse.
With what you’ve been blessed,I would hazard a guess,that the lyrics easily flow.
But I would not call you an amateur, and I’m not sure I can call you a pro.
Still the cure you seek to this rhyming disease, and I think that I can assist.
Just hang on tight, and steady your knees, and do try not to resist.
The cure you seek, is within your grasp, and as simple as shine on a diamond
just purse your lips, and bend like a backflip, and kiss the blarney stone to stop rhymin’.
Arwin says to use free verse, I think it’s sound advice.
I thought it was so good in fact, I think I read it twice.
Problem being, when I’m keying, the rhymes still hit the page.
Still I’m yearning, fingers burning, my brain just won’t engage.
I am not from Ireland, so please do call me dense.
But a kiss upon the Blarney Stone grants only eloquence.
I searched for more, tried to explore, but to no avail.
If I fly out there my friend, it’ll be just for the ale.
So, I went to see a Doctor, to cure my malady.
The brain surgeon booked me for a “rhyme lobotomy.”
They put me in a straightjacket, to stop me posting prose.
I really hope they don’t find out I typed this with my nose.
:eek:
Try e. e. cummings a couple of times;
you’ll be too tired from coding to rhyme.
o meek’s been
___________sp
____________rea
_____________di
______________n
______________g
_____(con
tagious
)rh y me s
_______,and
spri ng
__________________is here
!
The answer to your problem is easy.
Though you might think it is rather cheesy.
Lay down on the floor
and with only one hand pour
gin and whiskey down your throat til you’re queezy.
You will find that in this drunken state
that your rhyming skills defintately abate.
They will further diminish
should you choose to finish
the jello vodka shooters on your plate.
If drunkeness is not your style
something else, for you, should beguile
Take up some vocation
or just a location
which will keep you from rhyming for ahwile.
[spoiler] As for ** e e cummins ~ ** I don’t care
_____________________ for his work.
_ Aimless words tossed
___________________________ on the page
___ make me go berserk.
______________________ Damn you EmeraldGrue!
_____ There’s still rhyme in my ode,
__ It took no time to write the rhyme…
________________ ~ but all day to do the code.
!
[/spoiler]
Heeding Dragwyr’s direction, I quaffed some hard liquor,
It didn’t shake the blasted rhyme, and now my screen’s a blur. buttonjockey308 ~ that sounds a little sleazy.
But after booze, and spoiler hues, I’ll try it ~ Hell, I’m easy.
Well… all that jerking wasn’t working ~ my torment never ends.
Was I doing it correctly? I don’t know; that depends.
Perhaps the calculation part, I didn’t understand.
But at least, my speed increased, typing with one hand.
As my misery continued; the outlook seeming bleak.
These friggen rhyming words have kept me up for most the week.
I ask the Mod, “Can my flawed lines of rhythmic meter,
Be corrected by respected staff that cruise the street here?”
“Verse so raw, breaks the law, good folks become offended.”
And said my poetic license was officially suspended.
“Lose the verse, don’t make it worse, and force me into action.
Any more bad poems from you would be a board infraction.”
I dont not beleive what you encountered was in fact a ligtning strike.
My beleif? its all in your head!, but you may think what you like.
This board requires evidence, and may i politely suggest,
what you encountered was another light source, a large flashlight at best!
the solution to your problem, so far you would not have read,
because when all is said and done, its all just in your head!
