Bad Poems From A Decade Ago – #2

Following on from last week’s bumpy ride down memory lane, here’s a quartet (and a bit) of “Roses are red…” spoofs, written for a creative-writing class in April 1995. Unlike the last offering dredged up off a long-forgotten floppy disk, I still remember quite well the circumstances surrounding these poems.

I wanted to be a writer. It seemed like relatively easy work, and comparatively easier to tell when you’ve created something good than some of the other soft arts. (How do you tell “good” abstract art from the bad? What makes good impressionist paintings “good”?) Like most fledgling wordsmiths, I looked down upon poets as talentless, uncommitted wastrels with short attention spans.

So it was that, forced to come up with a dozen or so poems in a creative-writing class, I came up with the following ditties. First was one too horrible to mention:

There’s a purple elephant,
right above your head.
If you do not move,
you will soon be dead.

Then came one with an, ahem, artistic bit of scatological self-loathing:

My blood, it is red,
though sometimes it’s blue.
my eyes, they are brown,
the colour of poo.

And then one that got me into a whole world of trouble, being as it wasn’t all that long after what happened at Columbine, and the school administrators were already concerned over a snarky three-dimensional sculpture I’d made that the art teacher had interpreted as a death threat (though that’s a story for another day). I made sure the pronouns didn’t refer to the teacher of the creative-writing class, but I still got an appointment with the creepy principal…

The teacher’s alive,
though I wish he were dead.
If I gave you a gun,
would you blow off his head?

I tried to say it was an exploration of the dangers of peer pressure, but nobody believed me.

Anyway, you’ll note I said a quartet of bad poems, and that was only three. Well, here’s the fourth, with some backstory.

“Roses are red…” poems are perilously close to limericks, and there’s something about limericks that inevitable turns the mind towards naughtiness. The fourth poem I handed in that week read as follows:

The roses are dead,
the violets are too.
I’m awfully depressed
and my skin’s turning blue.

…but that’s only because I chickened out at the last moment, and never handed in the original variation I composed:

Roses are red,
carnations are, too.
My cock ring’s too tight
and my
thing‘s turning blue!

Somehow, I didn’t see that one going over too well with the teacher, so it was altered, in the first of many acts of self-censorship I’ve performed over the years in the interests of peace, harmony, and avoiding lectures.

I’d say I hoped you enjoyed that, but I’d be kind of worried about you if you had. The third installment of this little waste of disk-space and bandwidth will feature a haiku, and one I’m actually a little bit proud of, for all the right reasons. Don’t you just tingle with anticipation? 🙂

Published in: General | on December 19th, 2006| Comments Off on Bad Poems From A Decade Ago – #2

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