We present the 4 final poems for the CZP Shitty Poetry Month. It is up to you, Gentle Reader, to decide which one of these terrible poems will reign as the shittiest poem of them all! Click on the "Read more" tab below to view each poem, then cast your vote for the worst poem in the poll below. Voting ends May 2nd, and the grand champion will be announced next week and will take home the Shitty Poetry Championship Belt.
Good luck to all our champions, and may the shit be with you!
"A Stark and Wormy Blight" by Mike Bryant
It was a stark and wormy blight
That killed the tree
The Poet Tree!
Poe, a tree!
A tree, Poe!
The branches tapping
A-rapping at my chamber pot
Your chamber? Not!
Knot a tree
Poe! It tray!
A tray, a tray, a tray!
A tray, poe!
A tray of pie!
The beating of its hideous filling!
Four and twenty blackbirds – RAVENS!
Ravens! Black! Black, Rebecca.
Rebecca Black, so named after the dead roses in her hideous heart
The blackened pie of her soul
Eat it! Eat the pie! Filled with ravens!
Eat it today!
For it is pie day
Pie day, Friday
Gotta get down on Friday
"Dissimilar Familiars" by John W Sexton
The pigeon in pecks sipped from the runnel
of blood that ran bright from the burst right eye
of the witch’s cat. Cat, by the tunnel
of light that entered through the pigeon’s eye,
was now a blood-mind in the pigeon’s brain.
“Come my pigeon, come my puss,” sang the witch,
and the pigeon rose on applauding wings.
Cat-pigeon came down to the town square, which,
was where all of the witch’s pigeons shat.
The square was now dull with pigeons’ silver,
(that none would guess was the shit of a cat),
and lying there grey as tarnished pewter
the square of the town was the note of love
the witch sent up to her dead cats above.
"The Lunch Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by Karen Heuler
"I'm mystified by you," I said
"your extra arms, your extra head.
what kind of life must your kind lead;
what kind of thing on which you feed?"
"We're not that different," he said.
"We like your cheese and beer and bread.
We like your meat," he then confessed.
"We like it very simply dressed—
dressed in a suit or in the nude."
"I don't approve this choice of food,"
I said, "I don't look good upon a plate.
It would be such a big mistake
To think I'd simply acquiesce
to bathe in pesto, romanes-
co, or some stew. No sauce for me!
Though you look quite rotisserie."
"We're in dispute," he mused out loud.
"A compromise would do us proud."
"All right," I said. "What should we share?"
"We'll give up what we have to spare."
"That's fair enough, I guess," I said,
"You'll eat my hand, I'll eat your head."
Which demonstrates consensus-ship,
But doesn't say who leaves the tip.
"In All Her Quiet Dignity She Rides" by Dominik Parisien
Blamed on Nicole Kornher-Stace
In all her quiet dignity she rides
proud horned horse propelled
by posterior flames.
Her mighty phallus-like
she struts, to the dismay
of most, if not all
(no pleasant penetration
does this mare provide).
Some have seen her soaring upwards
to the half-formed moon, a limp
body dangling at her head
others to Saturn, to test
the mettle of its rings
with her fearsome hinds.
Of only this we can be sure
in all her quiet dignity she rides
and none alive dare claim otherwise.
Vote here for the poem you think is the shittiest!