Bad Poetry

I don't really do poetry, although Poe blows me away with some of his. However, there is one time of the year that I love to read poetry. Truly bad poetry.

Agent Chip MacGregor hosts a bad poetry contest every year around his birthday. The winner (chosen by an impartial jury, I'm sure) gets a really stupid book as a prize, plus the distinction of being the worst poet ever.

I entered in 2007 with a poem I wrote in 7th grade--Froggy Man. I think I got disqualified because he thought I cheated by writing it under the influence. This year, after reading two amazing entries by Amy and Aimee, I got talked into trying again this year. So here it is. Are you ready???

Cactus Man

An arm, twisted toward the sun
That is baking down, hot and well, really hot
Against the desert sand.
I am cactus man.

A tall, looming, spiky, water-saving (does that make me green?) being,
Providing shade and sustenance
For lost travelers on this forsaken plain.
I am cactus ma(i)n.

My princely head, green against blue
(Referring to the sky) should wear a sombrero.
Arriba, arriba!
Alas, I cannot roll my r's,
So my head remains barren
Like this land.
I am cactus man.

Here I stand till I'm shriveled.
Maybe in heaven I'll wear a sombrero,
Or maybe an eye patch.
Or maybe there's no heaven for me.
Because I sometimes envision a frying pan
(Maybe a mirage?)
With slivers of me sizzling like green beans.
Nearby is a man in the sombrero
(Who probably can roll his r's,
But it's too late for me to learn), as I sizzle in forlorn loss of spikiness,
The murderess above me humming a Spanish lullaby
As she stirs me with her hand.
I am no longer cactus man.

I am dinner.

The End (literally)

All right, you know you wanna try your hand at it now. :-) Go to Chip's blog at http://www.chipmacgregor.com/.