Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Really Bad Poetry

Last week one of my good friends, Tom Gee, replied to an email I sent out to all our small group members urging them to stay home if the weather turned foul. He replied in poetic form... which led to a poetic reply... which led to a poetic war! Of course, I am using the term “poetic” very loosely here.
So, for anyone who cares to eavesdrop on a series of flow of consciousness poetry between two friends (‘cause, you know, there are a LOT of people who scour the interweb looking for THAT...) here you go!

Tom is normal font, and I reply in italics: (context – Tom had been up the better part of the night working on a homiletics assignment)

-----

Neither rain nor sleet nor hail nor gale
could restrain us in the swale,
for our vessel is sure and our snow tires are on,
our gunwhale fast and our ribs made strong,
We shall set sail for the blissful land
of the Martin's gospel band,
though our sheets be torn and our lines be ragged,
the rocks be bare and the reef be jagged,
For our courage shall sustain us,
our hearts will make us bold,
(unless it looks really scary out .... y'know, we're gettin' kinda old.)

-----

With volcanic force
His mouth erupted
In a wild torrent
Of speech corrupted

Hours of sleeplessness
Took its toll
And Tomgee's words
Flowed like a scroll

Of endless verbiage
Misunderstood
And wracked with poisons
From bitter wood

Why dost he speak?
And not lay down?
He seeks from Bob
The homiletic crown

Sleep, Tomgee, sleep
There's no better tonic
For your verbal blasts
Be they supersonic.

-----

Wow! I am humbled.
To the very dust
Before the master's
verbal thrust.

With words well-chosen
and scansion keen
You make your point
Both neat and clean.

I want to walk
In your footsteps strong
Although your stride
Is much too long.

But it is all joy
To follow in your wake
Though a wobbly trail
I wobbly make.

And I have a habit
Between the lines
Of adding syllables
Which don't quite rhyme (or scan).

But I must return
To my labour sore
To continue writing
Where I was before.

For these Gospel giants
Wait for no man.
But boy could they preach!
And make you understand!

The peril of sinners
In God's angry hands
Brings chills to my spine
O, time's running sands!

But you're my favourite
Gospel preacher by far
So preach on, my brother!
...ok, I'm out of time. :-)

-----

Tempted as I am to gain the last word
I yield to your needs, knowing if you heard
Yet another verse from my prose-laden lips
You'd feel compelled to give another rip!

-----

Aha, now my printing's done!
The report is finished!
And now for fun!

Because I also get to preach today
and to practice, my essay
(my manuscript) I did reduce
to bullet points, so I'll be loose
to speak more freely, less note-tied
so fewer people will run and hide
and snore and blink and nod and yawn
(and all other ways to carry on
when they are bored), instead they'll be
quite enraptured, I hope to see,
and if they sleep, then I'll abort
for if you can't be good, be short. :-)

-----

Now this, by far, was your best work
Your meter did not go berserk
your adjectives were quite compelling
providing a descriptive shelling
like bombs exploding in the air
each one sharp and loud and fair
why not preach today in rhyme?
i think you'd have a lovely time
and Bob would never fall asleep
although your grade may end up deep

-----

Not a bad idea, it might work well
But I'm afraid my conceit may swell
And before I know it, I'm preaching in rap

Cause y'know, bro', wats up wi' dat?
I don' think gettin' down at Jarvis St.
Would with T. T. Shields' approval meet,
An' he would frown, smile upside down,
An' glare upon my furry crown.
But Dr. Penhearow, he's flexible,
But he'd not be happy, gi' me trouble,
He'd say, "Hey homie, wat is dis ting?
And besides dat, where is your bling?"
With no sleep, my bling has fled.

So I'd better be good, then get to bed.

-----

"And besides dat, where is your bling?""

YOU WIN!!!!!

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