(dedicated to Lyle Blake)
From “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” Fifth Annual Horrible College-Student Poetry Competition, here is the fourth place
whiner winner of this year’s event.
To my mind, it shines like anthacite, its quality well above the others. On the other hand, poetry is like, you know, subjective and all, like, so who can judge when it comes from the heart?
In fact, all of the entrants should have won first place. It’s the only fair outcome. No doubt, some school official will come down on Hatemongers for not choosing everyone. And deservedly so.
Without further ado, a sonnet by someone named Quincy (you know a poet is first class when he travels under but a single name:
Fourth Runner-Up: “sonnet of (equaliteez)” bai (Quincy)
how R U racist? let me kount teh wayz
U R racist cuz U R (white)
U R racist bai dai n nite,
U R racist cuz U fite
teh ones who teech (equality).
U R racist cuz U dwell
on mai lak of skilz at spell(ing)
U R racist cuz U talk (white)
ai reelee can(not) stand the site,
uv U talking (white)…
ai seez U, (white), az uh sheet,
KKK reddy 2 beet… (me)
(white) az AmeriKKKa!
U R racist cuz U deny teh (truth),
the fundu(mental) equazhun…
My cat was impressed with Quincy’s efforts here. She is black except for a tiny tuft of white at her throat; no doubt, this physical fact of inky fur was the deciding element for her. With cats you never can tell.
I will leave you to peruse the other winners. A little warning, however, about the third runner-up who seems a bit obsessed with body fluids. Probably a Pisces.
Hat tip: Pundita
[POETRY ENDS HERE, ALAS AND ALACK]
I asked an anonymous kitty what he thought, and he was unimpressed.
I can haz potry?
My dear darling Babs,who died last summer was a life long democrat. Born of a single mother and raised for the first few weeks in the pound, she supported Hillary. A black American that never got the chance to vote because she was a dog…
You want poetry? I’ll give you real poetry.
I give you Peter Veale’s rework of Poe’s “The Raven”.
The Raven’s Reply
Swaggerin’ home in raven fashion, feelin’ rather bold and dashin’,
Thought I’d do some poet-bashin’; saw this light above a door –
A sign that E.A. Poe was porin’ o’er some problem bleak and borin’,
Like how to rhyme with Ulalume, or find a maiden named Lenore.
And when I heard the morbid nutter mutter, ‘Oh my lost Lenore!’
I tapped my beak against his door.
Presently the joyless mortal opened up his gloomy portal,
Eyed me with misgiving and inquired what was my visit for.
I said I was a poor old raven, tuckered out and seekin’ haven;
Could I rest awhile upon the bust of Pallas o’er his door?
‘The bust? Well, if you must,’ he answered, clearly shaken to the core,
‘But what news have you of Lenore?’
‘By Jeez,’ I mused, ‘by flamin’ golly, this man is clearly off his trolley;
I’ll play upon his melancholy as I perch above his door.’
I said: ‘Dear Brother Poe, I’m sorry I cannot really ease your worry
Except for some reward which you might bring from your provision store.
A piece of steak would do me nicely – even offal if you’re poor.
Oh, then I might remember more.’
‘Corrupt and greedy bird!’ he chided. ‘Is my sorrow thus derided?
One who’s lost a love, as I did, on the Night’s Plutonian shore,
Regards your attitude as callous, so please quit the bust of Pallas,
Where you seem quite disposed to stay for half the dreary night or more;
Then pray be good enough to clean the raven-droppings from the floor
Before you’re banished from my door.’
I stared him out and wouldn’t waver. (Clean up the floor? Do me a favour!)
So finally I got to savour some small offerings from his store.
He fed me, but I kept on stallin’; told him I was past recallin’
Anything of his fair maiden, anything of lost Lenore.
I broke the wretched fellow’s spirit with my croaks of ‘Nevermore’,
And I’m immortalized for sure.
— Peter Veale —
“how R U racist? let me kount teh wayz
U R racist cuz U R (white)”
It seems he can only count one.
Dymphna dear, the only liquid Pisci are interested in is the alcoholic content of any and all liquids!!!
Tom-the voice of experience past
I had a feeling that “No More Salad For Me, Mom” by Phoenix was a parody, and it looks like I was right.
Here is the link from Phoenix’s website. She actually sounds pretty cool.