From: cujo@petitmorte.net   
      
   nancygene.andjayme@gmail-dot-com.no-spam.invalid (NancyGene) wrote in   
   news:pPCdnYqhTLsiwMn0nZ2dnZfqnPudnZ2d@giganews.com:   
      
   >> HarryLime wrote:   
   >> The Bard on Will Donkey:   
   >>   
   >> Beneath the shade of the rusted mill, Stands a stubborn jackass named   
   >> Will. With a flick of his ear and a heavy bray, He decides to ruin   
   >> everyone’s day.   
   >>   
   >> He doesn't kick or buck or bite, He does something worse in the pale   
   >> moonlight: He clears his throat with a raspy cough, And starts his   
   >> "Art""it’s time to scoff.   
   >>   
   >> The Stanzas of Despair   
   >> Will Donkey thinks he’s a gifted sage, The Byron of the barnyard   
   >> stage. But every line he tries to speak, Makes the strongest   
   >> farmhands feel quite weak.   
   >>   
   >> His meter limps like a broken cart,   
   >>   
   >> His metaphors tear the soul apart,   
   >>   
   >> His rhymes are lazy, his themes are trite,   
   >>   
   >> He’s a literary blight in the middle of the night.   
   >>   
   >> A Review from the Field   
   >> The cows have moved to the farthest gate, The chickens have resigned   
   >> to their fate. The sheep have stuffed their ears with wool, Because   
   >> his "masterpiece" is full... Of unspeakable trash, a verbal sludge,   
   >> The kind of verse no judge could judge.   
   >>   
   >> It isn't just bad, or dull, or grim, It’s a special hell designed   
   >> by him. A pile of words, a steaming heap, That makes the very angels   
   >> weep.   
   >>   
   >> "He’s got the spirit," the farmer lied, While looking for a place   
   >> to hide. "But if I hear one more sonnet on grass, I’ll sell that   
   >> poetic, pompous ass."   
   >>   
   >> So if you wander past the hill, And hear the groaning of Wild Will,   
   >> Don't stop to listen, don't wait for the hit" His poetry is, frankly,   
   >> unspeakable sh*t.   
   >>   
   >> Prepare yourself. Here is a piece of "fine literature" pulled   
   >> straight from Will Donkey’s crusty satchel. He calls this one   
   >> “Ode to a Half-Eaten Carrot.”   
   >>   
   >> Ode to a Half-Eaten Carrot   
   >> By: Will Donkey   
   >>   
   >> The orange stick is in the dirt, It makes my tummy feel a hurt. It   
   >> used to be long, now it is short, Like a tiny, crunchy, veggie fort.   
   >>   
   >> I chew it once, I chew it twice, I think that dirt tastes very nice.   
   >> Crunch, crunch, crunch, goes my big mouth, The carrot is moving   
   >> further south.   
   >>   
   >> Is it a fruit? Is it a bone? I eat it while I stand alone. It is   
   >> orange, like the sun above, Carrots are the things I love (and   
   >> shove).   
   >>   
   >> The end is green, the middle is gone, I shall bray until the dawn.   
   >> Hee-haw, hee-haw, the carrot is dead, I think I’ll go and kick the   
   >> shed.   
   >>   
   >> The Literary Consensus   
   >> If you survived that, here is the breakdown of why the local animals   
   >> have formed a protest committee:   
   >>   
   >> The Rhyme Scheme: A-A-B-B, if the "B" stands for "Brain-damage."   
   >>   
   >> The Imagery: Visceral, but mostly because he mentioned eating dirt.   
   >>   
   >> The Emotional Core: Non-existent, much like Will's grasp of grammar.   
   >>   
   >> Would you like me to write the "Review" that the farm's resident owl   
   >> wrote about this specific poem?   
   >   
   >   
   >   
   > Yes, we would!   
      
   Damned right, Pendragon!   
      
      
   --   
   "Post-editing someone's statement before replying to it is a sure sign   
   that you have already lost the argument." - Little Willie Douchebag gets   
   another asskicking from Pendragon   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)