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Ode to a retired beer tester

watercrystal said:
wooo. you mean he/she is your DAD?!?!


Clearly not. This is an example of poetry from Bobbyburns. It doesn't rhyme, thus isn't quite up to the standard we expect in this thread, but we appreciate his contribution nonetheless.

I think what he's trying to express, is how he prefers to dress up as a lady at the weekend. I think speciafically the outburst was brought on by te fact he'll be forced to tend to his carrot and potato fields this weekend. It's a shame :(
 
bobbyburns said:
ha ha. dad? ha ha. dad?! Ha Ha Ha. Dad?! HAHAHAHA. DAD?!?!

I really can't stand this existential crap. Where's the rhyme? Where's the rhythm? There is none. Therefore your 'poem' is trash. I know that some people look unkindly on those that 'diss' another person's art, but you have to be cruel to be kind and, as the greatest poet in the world, I feel it is my duty to instruct others in their failures.

Of course, my great genius shines like a laser through your work and cuts straight through to the very core, the very essence. I have taken the liberty of rewriting it. I'm sure you'll see how much better it is now.

I laugh
At Father
I laugh
With Dad
Family
Happiness
The fun
We had
To think
Of Father
Just makes
Me glad
 
squaredcircle said:
Silence fell in, as heavy as darkness, as a raindrop, as feather,

The spork poked into sky, into women, into darkness,

hardened, rusted, softened, dissipated

soudlessly into where it comes

Interesting. I like your use of rust to express the victim's hopeless rush into entropy. But again, this work does not rhyme and will only ever be second rate. But there's little that can be done about that at this late stage so let's just work with what we've got. It's staggering how you've managed to convey your intense fear of clowns through the use of that one simple word 'darkness'. It is perhaps a little derivative of the epic poem 'How mighty my spork' by the Italian Poet Sporkolina Spaghetti, but this is still a valid work in its own right. The use of metaphor raises this poem above the ordinary and confronts the reader with their own mortality in such a way as I've not seen since Herkel Majestic stunned the world with his Ode to a
Grecian 2000. I thank you for sharing. I'm sure great things await you just as soon as you get the hang of those rhyming couplets.

The square surround
By which I'm bound
It crushes me
I must be free
Erase this line
Which does confine
Do not impound
The circle round
 
And now for Billy O's turn. Ahem.

A meeting at one
With the fat Bolivian
I'm packing a gun
Send him to oblivion
Little sisters say 'No!'
That I shouldn't risk it
But the man has to go
Coz he stole my biscuit
 
Billy Oblivion said:
Dead heat,
Dead beat,
Everybody's dancing in the street,
And all the little sisters go wow, wow, wow.

Poor Mr. Oblivion! This is a cry for help! Like Peter O'Toole in "My Favorite Year" the poor man is tired of being used as a sexual play thing by women, but they just won't let him alone. It's a tragedy! He's been cursed wth an abundance of charm, beauty, and virility, but he wants the world to see him as more than an object of pleasure. Alas! It's not to be.

Irene Wilde
 
one (mississippi!)
two (mississippi!)
three (mccloud!)
four (dipstick!)
five (four!)
six (rimjob!)
seven (fifty-percent!)
 
Freya said:
Clearly not. This is an example of poetry from Bobbyburns. It doesn't rhyme, thus isn't quite up to the standard we expect in this thread, but we appreciate his contribution nonetheless.

I think what he's trying to express, is how he prefers to dress up as a lady at the weekend. I think speciafically the outburst was brought on by te fact he'll be forced to tend to his carrot and potato fields this weekend. It's a shame :(


Thanks for explanation, Freya. Friday again, horay! :)

Bobbyburns tended to say something kinda strange which i always wanted to make sense of it. but maybe it's just that I am dumb. :eek:
 
LItany, you really surprised me here! To you, Greatest poet, Lady Spagetti,

A slender grace,
A solmn face,
Spork in her hands screams,
Her smile shrinks,

Irritatingly pocking, pocking,
a tender heart inside throbing,

awww. No way for me to make it rhythm. :eek: failure. sorry.
 
Freya said:
Art isn't meant to make sense.

umm, actually, have read your signature, and thought for a while.

well, honestly, i don't know. seems what you said is like Oscar wilder's "Art for art's sake".

:confused: *thinking......................*
 
let me try

roses are red
violets are blue
if you stash your sporks on bed
and see bunny ears dont ask who

better close your eyes
and hold on the stench
endure the stress
or you might face the wench
 
Well, it seems my simple message is getting through. Just a few more of you to gently poke at with my rhyming stick.

Ahh, Watercrystal. A failure. So true. But bonus points for highlighting the anguish of the soul when confronted with the imponderability of the spork wielded by one who intends to use it.

Does it take too much time
To rhyme?
Was it never your plan
To scan?
Just give me a rhythm
A nice subtle flow
And I'll follow your poems
Wherever they go

And Mr Michel, ahh yes. I see you're still deeply wounded by those terrible Spanish pies filled with cheese and strawberries. Your words make me ache.

Spose that's another two odes to forumites I'll have to get written. I should never have started this. I'm a fool to myself.
 
A game, a sport. The passing sort.
The type to soothe the masses..
Can be tiresome, dull, shit on a wall,
without the company of Lasses.

So I took my girl on a 9 inning twirl.
For once we skipped the malls.
I understand why baseball is America's favorite pastime,
When I hugged her on the strikes, she kissed me on the balls.


RaVeN
 
I call this dust in the wind: part 2 ...

I close my mind, only for a, moment,
and to caladan I say, goodbye--
my visions are haunted by, harkonnens,
but on a sandworm I'd blaze through, the sky.

[chorus]
dust in the wind, all I am is,
dust in the wind.

[solo] clickity-clack clickity-clack
buddum-schh-bd-d-d-m shuffle-shuffle,
and then fade back in.

[bridge]
so, hey there mr. fremen, better make me some, room,
I'm kingshitoffuckmountain, and I'm here to rule this, dune,
nothing lasts forever but, the earth and the, sky,
it slips away, all your spice won't, another minute buy.

[chorus]
dust in the wind, all you are is,
dust in the wind.
 
Scary little Watercrystal
Gonna bag a man
Semi-automatic pistol
What a master plan
She's going all the way to Bristol
Catch her if you can
 
Mr Michel
Was feeling unwell
It was Friday
So he grabbed some crust
Filling was a must
Made it pie day

But strawberries and cheese
they just didn't please
It was crappy
So he filled his gob
With a tasty Hobnob
And was happy
 
One night on good ship Sporky, as he sat there looking dorky
El Beardo Diablo was a trimming of his beard
Was a gentle sound of snipping and his leather pants were nipping
When there came a eerie knocking and it made him quite afeared
As he leapt to his feet he felt peculiar and weird
He opened the door and sneered

'Who comes a knocking late at night? Do you hope to cause me fright?
'El Beardo Diablo has no time for this daft prank!'
With this he slammed the door closed and he huddled 'neath his bedclothes
And he thought he'd calm himself down with some cocoa and a yank
Then he saw the Raven standing on the floor so dank
Quoth the Raven 'You're a skank.'
 
Whither goes the bunny?
On mighty thumping feet
He sneaks behind my sofa
Phone cables for to eat

What think you my rabbit?
As you twitch your little nose
'I'll chew upon your trousers
And make holes in all your clothes'

But why my little bunny?
When I love you so my rabbit
'Please don't take it personally
It's just a force of habit'
 
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