"Could BookReader please write an absolute McGonnagall of a poem? Pretty please?"
Oh boy. You asked for it.
William McGonagall was/is considered to be the worst poet of the Victorian Age. He was so bad that people regularly had sitting parties to read his poetry and laugh at it. Most of his poems were odes commemorating tragedies of various sorts, such as a fire, or a sinking of a boat. McGonagall's poetry is... bad. It's not the worst I've ever read, but it is uniquely bad for its time period. Most of the other bad poets of that age have faded into obscurity, but the comical quality to McGonagall's sheer badness, has kept him around.
Anyway, you can think of this poem as an ode to the master.
O for a love of God
Like an ocean drowning some poor mod
Gather round your children
And tears they shed shall be a million
When they contemplate this story
That is sure to be awful and gory
About what happened to hymenopteran heroes
When laid out on a plate for fate like Guy Fierio's
Twas the middle of summer,
Out of school the children were; not a bummer
Playing their childhood games
Singing and dancing and calling each other rude names
When one announced he wanted to play ball
(A good sport thought they all)
Now, tragically, you now will hear
What happened that was so hear-
Whence the ball game did commence
And all their boredom became past tense
Little Johnny threw his ball
And that ball began to fall
Right into a bush that the gardener
Oh what a horrible sight, did this ball make
When right into our heroes' nest it did take
Yes, smash it did through their little home
And they began to flee like turds from irritable bowel syndrome
And out and about the wasps did swarm
And oh how the children preformed
Feats like running and getting stung
Oh, a tragedy like this I've never before sung!
Then did the child Little Johnny,
Yell in his voice, quite scrawny,
Until his daddy did hear him shout
And notice the poor wasps all about
And said, "Why this will never do
Wasps in the yard we should never let accrue
OH and WOE, the father with fatherly haste
Went to the store without letting time waste
And bought a thing made of
pyrethroids, permethrin, and poison foxglove
All pert in a can, ready to dish death
And poison wasps until none were left
And this he did, and all the wasps died,
And to this I say, I verily cry'd
For who has the heart to stand ideal by
When four-score and some'ought insects die?
Not I! I say!
So mourn you, you gallant reader
Gavotte your tears across your chin
And say, "O, dear friend Lin,
Did you hear about the abhorrent slaying
Of wasps whom nearby children were playing?"
And she'll say, "Nay, good sir/madam
I did not. For I am
A closeted shut-in!"
Good sirs/maddams divorce your friend
For she has no heart that sheds no tears
Give out to your friends questionnaires
And shun all who give no remorse
Flee from them as if on a fast horse!
That is the tale I've come to relate
It is a tragedy hereto unknown to date
Scream until you're purple
Or run around in circles,
You'll never be happy
Because you've heard of this carnage
A reQuested poem.
The Song of Ceber
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