The Way You’re Facing

The question is, ‘Bad poetry, does it have a place?’
The answer is, of course, it makes all other poems
seem like better verse. And there we have it
poeteasers, an iron-clad rule for rhyming screamers,
strain yourself to pen a flogging rhyme, repeat it
ad-infinitum ‘til the line meanders to a sodden,
mewling close in trite and sickening repose.

On the nose? Why would you think like that?
A pleasant rhythm soon disposes readers to
discover roses in a rancid verse, pick up the
rhythmic pace, start a race with shorter words
that canter on the line, then crack the whip
and slap the leather, free the reins discard
the tether, holler as you thunder off

into a vacant wild blue yonder. ‘Tho now of course
you’re lost for words to stem the flow of gross
inanities, you’re standing where you see the
hollow farce you’ve writ; its full of shit, you’re
full of shit, less the bit you used in verse – but rest
assured; someone out there likes this stuff
so post it quick. It’s worth at least a 9 or 10.

I’m not taking the piss, I’m demonstrating.
The difference is in the way you’re facing.
© I.D. Carswell

(In memory of William Topaz McGonagall)