Scylla ,Fenris and others of y’all pen some really good stuff.
I thought I’d try for the other extreme.
Please don’t leave me here all alone. 
Sunken in my depression
Quietly reflecting
Glued to my spot
In the middle of the freeway
…Bott’s dot
Oh MAN have I got some bad poetry for you. Straight from the sparkly pens of 13-year-olds, no less. A selection:
“The Forest”
Air is heaven, trees are ornaments.
The nature is honey, so sweet.
The paradise is so heavenly.
Nothing like thee.
“Getting Away”
As I look down at the world below I see people staring back up at me
Thinking I am demented
Because I try to transpire through a big equilateral glass window
To take the initiative to escape from the dreaded agribusiness
I start with dreams
I end with sorrow
When I come home
I say, “Where have my dreams gone?”
Her hair is a rainbow
Her smile is great
But then I ask myself
“When will I meet her?”
I’ve saved this poetry newsletter for over a year now, because it is so very, very bad.
Oh moist toejam of love
From between the the fungiesqe corns
of big toe, and to next to big toe
caught in that web between those toes
as I am caught by your affections
My darling.
(once I recite that one to 'em it’s all over but for the moaning.)
Scylla, I’m honored by your contribution. Thank You!
The wind whistles through the tree.
It’s whistling dixie in the key of C.
And while it blows so strong, so sweet.
It won’t dispell the smell of Scylla’s feet.
Whats your name a song
a whisper on the air
a tune for those far off
the sun is bright people are kind and fare
Where is this place
The place in your mind
Is it real or illusion
How can people be so kind
Oh, MAN! You want some crap poetry? I’ll freakin’ GIVE you some CRAP POETRY!..
Sorry… just busy at homestar runner…
Poetry by RawkStah, 1993.
17th
- The 17th Commandment–thou shalt not
give of thine rat’s ass.
Do not give a rat’s ass.
Have you no compassion, heathen?
Do not give a rat’s ass.
Think–the rat’s ass you give may be the last.
Think–the rat needs the ass you have given
Think–the rat has a place in the ecosystem
The rat keeps our population down.
We, the people of the United States
Do not give a rat’s ass.
We, the people of the United States
are politically correct.
Yet, some people do give a rat’s ass.
This does not mean they care.
Au contraire!
They are killing the world!
They are raping the earth!
They are mashing the trees!
Stop giving rat’s asses
and save the world please!*
The December landscape is serene
The winter paints a relaxing scene
All of nature is now asleep
As the trees stand in the snow so deep
The needles of the pines are dusted with flakes
Frozen solid are the surfaces of the lakes
All the fauna is in hibernation
The birds have gone south for their vacation
The fresh-fallen snow is glistening
The bare-branched trees, they are listening
To the silence of the winter season
Everything is quiet for a reason
The air is filled with a frigid chill
And all of life seems to stand still
Not until the arrival of spring
Shall the birds once again sing
For truly bad poetry, you must check out this wonderful LiveJournal.
smiling and swirling across the tree’s
to me u are the bees knee’s
i knew u once a long time ago
only then u had to go.
i mis u so much
cause u were such
a reely good friend and crush too
i used to be happy but, now i’m blue.
please come back!!! i reely miss u
all the time we new each other i wanted to kiss u
but i never did so, oh well
For writing this I’ll probably go to hell.
[The funny thing is, I had to write this in correct English and then insert typos.]
Here’s one I wrote several years ago about a cowboy and an electric fence:
My mother said “Life is uncertain.
You never know when you may be jerked hence.
But here’s some advice that will help you.
Never pee on the electric fence!”
My uncle had lots of money
But he never had much good sense.
I found myself very rich that day
He peed on the electric fence.
So, do I win first prize in the bad poetry contest? If not I’ve got several more verses of that particular poem, plus a couple other bad poems.
Ahem
A Vogon poem, courtesy of http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/vogonpoetry/lettergen.shtml.
If that’s not good enough, i can always go back through my old diaries from high school and find some “real” poetry…
I can offer no verse of my own, but no discussion of bad poetry is complete without William McGonagal. His acknowledged masterpiece is “The Tay Bridge Disaster”, but the first link gives links to many of his verses.
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom,
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom
“The German Guns”, by Private S. Baldrick
url=“http://www.poetry.com/”]The mother lode.
My contribution is here.
I saw a little rainbow,
way up in the sky
And as I watched and wondered,
It seemed to be saying “Hi!”
And so I took that little rainbow
and locked it in my heart,
And in my mind I put the key
so we shall never part…
Oh, love lorn lost to crushing disappointment
From the bittersweet lessons of wind-torn youth
Would I but never hath learned the meaning of the words
“Female Impersonator”
“Honkity honk” said the little gray goose
“Quackity quack” said the smallish brown duck
“Oh why must we die, when life is so grand?”
Said the goose to the duck, as they swam to the sand.
“So that more birds may live,
and to them joys can God give!”
“For now it is clear,
And now I shan’t fear
When someday I hear
Death’s sigh on my ear.”
Said the goosity mcgoose.
“Let us now go
As we quack and we honk
To talk to the crow
So that he might now know
To fly and chirp freely
While she can
Before she dies
And rots in the brown ground.”
Gundy,
That is an absolute classic - it sounds like it was composed from a roll of word-a-day toilet paper. “Escape from the dreaded agribusiness” is a phrase that shouldn’t be allowed transpire through the big equilateral glass window.
Time to unpack the summer clothing once more;
though the garments are tight and too short.
Shake out the wrinkles and hurriedly dress,
it’s time to frolic, gambol and cavort!
Let’s dance in the verdant green meadow
underneath clear cerulean skies
with nary a fluffy cloud stopping the sun
from burning our winter-white thighs.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Some poems rhyme
And this one doesn’t