Vogon Poetry Contest

Vogon Poetry Contest!

Winner shall receive 2 Vogonian dollars and will not be blasted into space.

English entries only as this message board does not accept true Vogonian script.

—my entry—

Baggies of the ferret pie
By Seven Graylands
Oh envelope my skin
the house waiting true
holding ketup bottles.
pore, pore, pore

Wash hogs of the sea.
Forward forever go I
into black yarns from belly lint
dust, dander
pour, pour, pour

nipples on post-it notes
twist tie my spleen
into waves of thoughts of you
kidney waste bakery
oven flesh
my love

Baggies of the ferret pie
my feet with testing dyes
open and true
dinner time
Poor, Poor, poor.

With only one entry, I’ll win this contest for sure.

With only one entry, I’ll win this contest for sure.
With only one entry, I’ll win this contest for.
With only one entry, I’ll win this contest.
With only one entry, I’ll win this.
With only one entry, I’ll win.
With only one entry, I’ll.
With only one entry.
With only one.
With only.
Pelcher turds.

Grop! I invect thee…
Cromulent pustulent
Tiddle tee dee.
Lemony roadkill shake.
Tummy grumble
Custard tumble
Slipslide mumble



Did you ever wonder where a booger came from?
It crawled out of your brain and turned to gum.
A sudden wind and it’s blown out in a sneeze
And lands on a slice of pizza cheese.
A had pick it up and it goes for a ride.
It sees a mouth and goes back inside.
And now th ebooger has been swallowed.
The digestive track is what it followed.
Through the stomach and into the gut.
It’s going all the way no matter what.
The booger can now be described in one word.
Our friend is now a little turd.
It lands in the toilet with a splash and fluch
And goes to the sewer and turns to mush.

In time
The turber
Cries again
For Justice
Just as
I make
My sephenitide.

Lurching like a
Temporary food particle
Patiently waiting to
Be digested by
My digestion system.


Much as a Franeak’s Sidewarbler
Makes its nest out of
Partially decomposed fruits of the
Kronaek flower despite its odor
Kind of like a penny
But not quite like one
At the same time I
Coat the particle in phlegm
Tinged with the copper sulfide
I inhaled a moment before.


But not before calling my ex-mother-in-law and telling her that I hate her for spoiling my children to the point that they do not listen to me and instead lock themselves into their rooms until I am required by court order to hand them over to my ex-wife who is now suing me for even more child support.

I vote for <b>Roadwalker’s</b>!


I sing of thee, o back pimple

I sing of thee, o back pimple,
for summing up for me my life,
for bringing me, in short, my present,
faced with which, I had no choice,
but to act.

Several days it was approaching,
bearing in it who knows what,
building up to some dark climax,
gathering the noxious substance,
beneath the skin.

No dark force could have informed it,
festering abysmally,
that its presence duplicated,
all its hosts pathetic trials,
all his gaffes, his weak resolve,
his meek acceptance of temptation,
his faltering and plain ambitions,
mirrored there upon a shoulder,
borne within.

Days of pain anticipated,
nights of sleeplessness, fatigue,
building towards that one sharp moment,
the thankful, glad realization,
that with the proper care and pressure,
all these matters could, so gently,
but so painfully, in sudden burst,
of gushing, strange complete relief,
to a head.

Oh, to be an abcess
Now that spring is here
And make some pus
And cause some fuss
And grow throughout the year.

And grow all rank and smelly
And spread across your thigh
Turn warm and red
Come to a head
Grow forth and multiply

And when you can no longer sit
And my life is worn and frayed
Squeeze my lube
Like a toothpaste tube
After the scalpel blade.

© Vogon Poetry, Inc. 2003 - Paprika Division

Ode to a sore that never healed…

Oh melancholic Gods of days gone by,
Whose armpits gleam with putty green,
I beseech your help the time is nigh,
Do I lack some essential gene?

Madness have left my head bare,
My life has known no justice.
If only I had not torn my hair,
Ov-er a natural orifice.



Beautiful, yet painful, is Vogon poetry.

I can not believe there aren’t more Vogon poets here.

Meat, we despise thee, thou vile stinky stuff!
If you eat only vegetables they’ll give you no guff…

Uh…this IS the Vegan Poetry Thread, right?

At first glance, I thought it said Virgin Poetry Contest.

Song of the Festering Open Sore

*O, festering sore, brimbling upon my dorsal appendage,
Dost thou prectolate in frumptious metacorpolisms!
Heartily I phrock to thy worrisome mesculations,
Only to heave my stomach contents upon the grithering floor!

O, festing sore, open and welling with crumbulous pus!
Hasten not to heal, for I cherriously unctulate in your beauty,
Always content with your rotting, bandastulous scent.
Fester on, O sore! For tomorrow we excultinize our vrambilitude!*

– Prostetnic Vogon Grumblarfarr

Thats … beautiful, man!:cool:

Oooo! Do I win? :smiley:

Don’t read too much into my response - I was the one who thought this was the virgin poetry contest. Would that be poems about virgins or by virgins? Or maybe the winner gets a virgin???:confused:

No, no, it’s the Vegan poetry contest, I tell you!

Ergo, I win!

No, it’s Vogon poetry, the worst poetry in the Galaxy. Of course, Vogons are so hideously ugly, I suspect most, if not all, of them are virgins.

Just don’t anybody sit in one of those Poetry Appreciation Chairs before opening this thread…