Ode to a Small Green Lump of Putty Found I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Day Morning
I woke up one
morning, 'twas utterly fine
I found in my armpit a green ball of
slime
It
slished and it sloshed, it jiggled and wiggled
So... I took it right out, inspected and giggled
I examined it closely, it moved just a little
all it seemed like to me was some verdigris spittle
Distressed and disgruntled by this green congelation
I gonkled and gawked as it retook its station
I pulled it, I tugged. It jiggled, I shrugged.
I said "this can wait 'til the morning."
I woke up the next day my courage renewed
So, prepared and refreshed the battle ensued
I tromped to the shed, exhuming my tools
My blowtorch, my buzz saw and scalpel to boot.
Confunded, perplexed I battled 'til ten
wondering when this epic would end.
I pondered my problem, now what would solve this?
Oh, how to dispose of this axial grist!
A quest to destroy this excrescence of doom,
to be rid of, to blast, to have it gone soon...
A perfect solution, my modest proposal!
Nibble my arm off, then deal with disposal..
“The plan’s most impressive.” My two heads agreed
thinking “at least it’s the arm and not we.”
I regret to inform you that this is the end
we've lost sections of portions of our audience…
and if any more die or keep gnawing off arms
we'd spend the rest of the day filling out forms
__________________________________________________
If you don't know what this means, don't worry; I don't either, but this might help make some sense out of it:
"Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem "Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning" four of his audience died of internal hemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been "disappointed" by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled "My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles" when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paul Neil Milne Johnstone of Redbridge, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison."
(..from Hitchhiker's guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams.)
While does bear a remarkable resemblance to the work of the famous Dr. Seuss this is not intended to be a critique of either Adams' work or Geisel's.
If you thought this was bad, just be happy that I didn't mention Eccentrica Gallumbits.
Too much?