Duelling doggerel!

You lazy lumps, God rot you
You've let the muse deflate
You dropped the bleeding baton
And the train is running late
Bad poetry doesn't happen by itself
It's not brought by a stork, or by an elf
In the fire it must be forged
From material unpromising, overblown, gorged
In the crucible alloyed and blended
Although so broke it cannot be mended
When the white heat of inspiration
Has quite departed
And you cannot finish what you started
Beaten into shape, with many a tear
Until something truly awful doth appear
Like this here.

Plaudits to you, Mr. McTag!
You're not allowing this verse to lag
Nor to fall behind, nor to sag.

The way that's it's done
With a great deal of fun
Is just to scribble and run.

Lol - I will cheat, and pop some doggerel I wrote for another thread in here as well:

Ode to the the Left Thumb Nail

(Recently grievously wounded in honourable service to a right pawed Bunny, while changing key rings)

Oh Nail! Only now you're scored,
(And I am forced to be north-pawed,
{Well, actually, I mean north-nailed,
But t' find a rhyme for that I've failed -
[Oh dammit - there's an oxymor'n -
A frill on which I've oft heaped scorn]})
Well, anyway, back to our meat -
Oh left thumb nail, you're really neat!

For now I find, to do each deed,
It's you I really, REALLY need -
To open boxes, tins and flowers,
To cook and clean I need your powers -
(You're wond'ring about the flow'rs, I deem -
Those wrapped in cellophane, I mean -
With sticky-tape wrapped all around,
Not those plucked freshly from the ground)

Oh doughty and scant honoured nail!
But loved and lauded when it fail!
I wait on Nature's healing powers -
(They're taking hours and hours and HOURS!)
I gaze upon your shattered mien,
I keep you scrupulously clean,
I swear I will not fail t' applaud
You when again I'm double- pawed!

Good pome, D, but I think I read that before somewhere.



Cheater, cheater!!!

Fair play, happy Andy, she said she wrote it before
It's as well to have one up your sleeve
Before coming in the door
A shot in the locker, some credit at the store
And then you'll have the punters always
Coming back for more

McTag, you make my heart go pitter patter
And the creative muse just gets fatter
Mind you, I may chase you around the place
Just to catch you before you quickly give chase
Pass the baton before the white heat passes
Before my inspiration wisps away to gasses

Turn up the music, pour the wine and dance
While there still remains that "fat" chance
For another poem to flow from our convivial hearts
Before breath is defeated by life's final arts
Unrelenting current of the muse's powerful magic
Poverty is not enough to pay for this is tragic

was it THAT tragic? do tell
blame it on the creative spell

Where are the bad poets of today? Missing
-I write this while the kettle is hissing
It's breakfast next, and then I must away
To see what is in store for me today
So greetings everyone across the world
And adieu until poetic thoughts have gelled

My doggerel is off to play,
Or fetch a bone, it's gone away -
I call it but it won't come home,
And so I chew my pen, and moam....

(If that last "rhyme" leaves you unswayed,
If you can't see the mess I've made,
I think your doggerel's gone too -
Pissed off without a damn adieu!)

maybe yer doggerel is hunting
for a little catteral or bunting
my doggeral begs to come play
but work keeps getting in the way

so, today I locked the door
spilled coffee on my kitchen floor
put on some soothing music or not
opened the windows until it gets hot

and today this is where I play
until bedtime, I am here to stay
chasing that doggeral around
to a frenzy of clickety clickety sound

you guys are the greatest!!!!!

A dog, a dog, my kingdom for a dog!
I could just write a little, or go the whole hog
A rhyme or two at bedtime could work just like a nightcap
Put an idea up, and throw some words, they stick just like a flytrap
In no particular order, a kind of chaos theory
With no restraints and no complaints the stanzas might flow freely
Nature abhors a vacuum, but has it tried a Dyson
That's the newest kind you know, I recommend you try, son
And when in bed I rest my head, I'll no doubt realise
The lines I could have written, ha! if only I'd been wise

While passing a fan-light with a louver
I heard a sound I thought was Dyson.
But, in fact, the vacuum was a Hoover
Which sounds just like a bellowing bison.

Rhymes about floor suckers
Like lemon makes funny puckers
Eurika was the only regret
In the big "D," you can bet

Wished I had my Eurika back
Burn this Bissell toasty black
Better yet, rip up the rug stuff
Bare floors in simple bear buff

Dust mop, damp mop, slop mop
Spill it, wipe it, no fear to drop
Watch doggerel slip and slide
and bust his furry hide

oh..this is sad stuff here......blame it on the cheap wine and strawberry swirl ice cream I had for sup

Sad stuff, bad stuff, make some others glad stuff
That's the kind of stuff that we like in here
If you write stuff, bound to be the right stuff
Matters not a jot if it offends the ear
I'm the man who waters the workers' beer.

We'd a gay pride parade in the city today
Loads of people came out and they wanted to say
This is our march, hooray, we are here
We don't really mind if you think we are queer
Dressed down, dressed up, this is us
We're here to shout and make a fuss
It was strange at first, now it's just routine
Once or twice a year, got up like a queen
Or in daring costume, hair of green
Quite a lot of our citizens hit the scene
But I'll just say this, if you want to know
I'm a bit old-fashioned, and I didn't go.

Old fashioned, proudly from the old school
Where wisdom is still considered cool
Common sense is a required course
Honor is sung without any remorse
Where free spirit means obedience
Laws abided by with enduring resilience
Absence of fearful thoughts sets the mind free
Nothing in freedom needs be proven to see


now see what you have done.....this is only a beginning, not the end...this has to be finished, polished and added to volume two of the incomplete works....tnx (wink)

Is there any love as great as the one for the creative muse where a spark of insight has more power than a full moon night?©

Shall we try a new epistle
On this lovely Sunday morn?
Wait until I've wet my whistle
Sit back, scratch head, stretch, and yawn

How are things where you are, matey?
Is your home secure and safe?
Is your roof pantiled, or slatey?
Do you love the human rafe?

(Forcing words to fit the rhyme
Shows it's nearly breakfast time)

I will have some fruit, or usually
Mug of tea and bowl of muesli
Very rarely have a fry-up
Meals like that make weight climb high up

So farewell until next time
Send your messages in rhyme

And 'good morning' to you, Mr. McT.
I hope you're enjoying your cuppa tea.
Myself, I'm sippin' the very first cup
Of coffee which helps wake me up.

Since weight has ne'er been my problem,
I'll skip the porridge and the pablum.
I'll have some eggs done up right
Along with some bacon to chase off the night.

(And, as you can plainly tell,
Rhyming first thing is purely hell.)

On this side of the vasty Atlantic
This weekend's bound to be sort of frantic.
'Tis a three-day weekend, come what may,
For Monday's yclept 'Labor Day.'

No, not 'Labour' -- that's one of your parties.
'Labor' means 'work to American smarties.

Between showers, they're out in the middle
And England's fond hope nearly crashes
They'e praying quite hard it should piddle
For Oz has its grip on the Ashes

They can't get the openers out
They got 185 for the first wicket
Now the covers are on in the rain
Yes the weather has halted the cricket

They damn it in Sydney and Melbourne
They curse it in Darwin and Perth
But the weather round here is an ill wind
Which sometimes proves what it is worth

This Ashes test match is a hard case
For those of us with no dog in the race.

I know not for which side to cheer
While sipping a cold stein of beer.

Have friends in both nations
(Even some blood-relations).

To be against either would seem queer.