She says what everyone else is thinking! Get ready! It's time to put on your berets and put your fingers together to snap snap snap for the brave poetry stylings of the one and only Sarah Palin, here on Doof Poetry Jam! As you well know, Ms. Palin recently published "Sweet Freedom,"
People who can't write prose for shit think they can get away with writing poetry. Usually, it turns out that they can't write poetry for shit either. But they are too stooopit to figure that out on their own.
every poet has a style and that's what makes it poetry. I don't think I ever heard a bad poem. unless its about something like cus words I don't care to much for cussing. but rather than that I have never heard a bad poem. Poetry is some body's personality, of the experiences and realty good job I hope every one can be a poet.
If she keeps working at it, she may be able to rise to the level of the World's Worst Poem. She doesn't have far to go.
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A Tragedy
Theophilus Marzials
Death! Plop.The barges down in the river flop.Flop, plop.Above, beneath.From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and flyTo the oozy waters, that lounge and flopOn the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.Plop, plop.And scudding byThe boatmen call out hoy! and hey!All is running water and sky,And my head shrieks -- "Stop,"And my heart shrieks -- "Die."* * * * * My thought is running out of my head;My love is running out of my heart,My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,For my life runs after to catch them -- and fledThey all are every one! -- and I stand, and start,At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,On the barges that flop And dizzy me dead. I might reel and drop. Plop. Dead.And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top Flop, plop.* * * * *A curse on him. Ugh! yet I knew -- I knew --If a woman is false can a friend be true?It was only a lie from beginning to end --My Devil -- My "Friend"I had trusted the whole of my living to!Ugh; and I knew!Ugh!So what do I care,And my head is empty as air --I can do,I can dare,(Plop, plopThe barges flopDrip drop.)I can dare! I can dare!And let myself all run away with my headAnd stop.Drop.Dead.Plop, flop. Plop.
My older bro used to be a bit o' a beatnik so one year for Christmas I gave him a "Beatnik in a Box" which had a copy of "On the Road," real bongo drums, sunglasses, and chocolate-covered espresso beans.
That touched me, man! And not in the way that makes you all tingly in your naughty places. But in a way that tells me that no matter how stupid I am or how many stupid things I do, Our Lady of the Perpetual Grift will always be stupider than I. Also, too.
They should try to print Sarah's concrete poetry with the correct shapes, the verse shape is what makes it a pome https://uploads.disquscdn.c...That and comic sans
People who can't write prose for shit think they can get away with writing poetry. Usually, it turns out that they can't write poetry for shit either. But they are too stooopit to figure that out on their own.
every poet has a style and that's what makes it poetry. I don't think I ever heard a bad poem. unless its about something like cus words I don't care to much for cussing. but rather than that I have never heard a bad poem. Poetry is some body's personality, of the experiences and realty good job I hope every one can be a poet.
If she keeps working at it, she may be able to rise to the level of the World's Worst Poem. She doesn't have far to go.
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A Tragedy
Theophilus Marzials
Death! Plop.The barges down in the river flop.Flop, plop.Above, beneath.From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and flyTo the oozy waters, that lounge and flopOn the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.Plop, plop.And scudding byThe boatmen call out hoy! and hey!All is running water and sky,And my head shrieks -- "Stop,"And my heart shrieks -- "Die."* * * * * My thought is running out of my head;My love is running out of my heart,My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,For my life runs after to catch them -- and fledThey all are every one! -- and I stand, and start,At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,On the barges that flop And dizzy me dead. I might reel and drop. Plop. Dead.And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top Flop, plop.* * * * *A curse on him. Ugh! yet I knew -- I knew --If a woman is false can a friend be true?It was only a lie from beginning to end --My Devil -- My "Friend"I had trusted the whole of my living to!Ugh; and I knew!Ugh!So what do I care,And my head is empty as air --I can do,I can dare,(Plop, plopThe barges flopDrip drop.)I can dare! I can dare!And let myself all run away with my headAnd stop.Drop.Dead.Plop, flop. Plop.
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The advice to read her in Laurie Anderson's voice is the key. The more you know...
Needs moar bongos.
It's fun that there has to be a balance among three elements, and the one that almost certainly doesn't exist is the most important.
My older bro used to be a bit o' a beatnik so one year for Christmas I gave him a "Beatnik in a Box" which had a copy of "On the Road," real bongo drums, sunglasses, and chocolate-covered espresso beans.
Veterans can be *gasp* -liberal-???? Is that allowed???? /sarcasm
That touched me, man! And not in the way that makes you all tingly in your naughty places. But in a way that tells me that no matter how stupid I am or how many stupid things I do, Our Lady of the Perpetual Grift will always be stupider than I. Also, too.
Sounds like Sarah.
The lady really does not care for the Sanctity of Language.
Timeless resonance, that's the mark of true poetry. Wait, what?
Ye gods — it makes Rod McCuen sound like the poet laureate.
They should try to print Sarah's concrete poetry with the correct shapes, the verse shape is what makes it a pome https://uploads.disquscdn.c...That and comic sans
And you've picked the perfect font.
Little Willy, dressed in sashes,fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes.By and by the room grew chilly,but no one dared to stir up Willy.
That's the way I remember it from childhood, but it's apparently a paraphrase:
http://ruthlessrhymes.com/c...