All the poetry I've read written by classmates over the past few days has made me reach 2 conclusions. 1. Not all classroom poets have their topics of pathetic verses limited to body parts of their girlfriends. 2. I am not a poet.
Yes, indeed, I did try my hand at those bally things, but all I ended up with was something Cacofonix would have gladly made a rock ballad out of and would have hung from the nearest tree in the process...again!
Asking me to write poetry is akin to asking the bones of Lady Di to rise up and do the tango. Would you ask the bones of Lady Di to rise up and do the tango? No, of course not. It's just too cruel(the bones would of course very much like to prance about in the said comical fashion, but they cannot). That, and the fact that if somebody catches you talking to bones, you might be sent over to the wrong side of the walls of 'Wycombe Mental Asylum' and be marked a bone-whisperer the rest of your life.
The March Hare had asked Alice to have some wine when there wasn't any. That was cruell! Asking me to be a practitioner of iambic tetrameter is an act no less criminal!
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Reminds me of The Prize Poem by P.G Wodehouse. Porechhish?
ReplyDelete"Not all classroom poets have their topics of pathetic verses limited to body parts of their girlfriends." - excie.
ReplyDeletei'd certainly like to see the bones of lady whatsitsname doing the tango. like a halloween treat.