In fine Vogon tradition, here is an assortment of some of really bad poetry I have pulled out of my armpit over the years. I will not be held responsible for feelings of nausea or out-of-body experiences you may personally experience; though high proof alcohol and a cocktail of narcotics will take the edge off what you are about to read. May the made-up gods have mercy on your eyes.
NO CHANCE
You have the perfect face; complexion and stare
You’re in full possession of your eyebrow hair
Curved, inked and pierced in all the right parts
A head-to-toe natural; not like those chav tarts
You live on the edge; a hot smoking gun
The loudest bang since the big one
But you don’t have a clue who Carl Sagan is
You can’t answer questions in a Star Trek quiz
You don’t know a constellation, besides the plough
You can’t name what’s roving on Mars right now.
Your favorite TV shows are ‘Twilight’ and ‘Glee’
This is why you don’t have a keeper in me!
A SUBTLE HINT (TO CHOCOLATE BOYS)
‘Spewing out your clichés from the “How Not To Do It” bible
Loafers and tacky tailored suit; you’re your own biggest idle
That charmless-cocky-arrogant and self indulgent smile
Doesn’t do you any favours; in fact it makes you look quite vile
Your bony, flapping arms conducting gestures where you stand
Look as clumsy as a mallard that’s coming in to land
I don’t like your silly hairstyle or that Charlie Chaplin strut
I’ve seen less tan and try-hard bling on a clapped-out TOWIE slut
I don’t want you in my sights, to smell your boozy breath, okay?
I don’t date fucking chocolate-boys, so get the fuck away!’
“There was obviously a reason she wouldn’t give a second thought
With that, I took the subtle hint – it must be ’cause I’m short!“
SOBERING THOUGHTS
The problem with being drunk is that you never will forget
The perfect, priceless laughter; the cringes of regret
What starts as slurring dialogue becomes a sloppy, verbal mess
Of mixed up words and phrases; to total strangers things confessed
Blurry flashbacks teasing; tit-bits from the night before
The thing you’re still unsure of is how you made it through the door
I what? To who? With who? Where to? Where, when and goodness why?
The flashbacks hitting hard and fast: “Good God, please let me die!”
“Never again!” a common phrase, but of course you always do
You’ll meet that stranger once again; the one you told, “I love ewe”
TONE DEAF DENIAL
Long ago I could sing, but now I’m not so sure
I’m a cross between Bono and that bloke from The Cure
I can’t hit the high notes or the bits in the middle
I’m like a frustrated busker with one string on his fiddle
But after a tipple it all starts to change
I’m a tenor, a baritone; I have a limitless range
With the voice of an angel; stray dogs howl with glee
Is it the PA that’s screeching?
No… sadly it’s me!
SOUTH OF THE BORDER
I’d seduced a brunette at a nightclub in Barry,
Statuesque and strong with a voice from the valley.
Chatting and laughing we were bonding just fine,
So I suggestively whispered, “shall we go back to mine?”
We lay there in darkness and embraced for while,
I was horny and eager, to go the full mile.
Frustrated and frisky I headed down south,
When something moist and warm found its way in my mouth.
This Amazon I’d scored at a nightclub in Barry,
Was to my surprise a drag queen named Gary.
