The only thing worse than listening to bad poetry is having your genitals cleaned by an industrial-strength sander while listening to bad poetry. On August 18th, we celebrate all that is bad (poetically speaking).
According to ancient legend, Bad Poetry Day was created by Thomas & Ruth Roy, under the name of Wellcat Holidays & Herbs. They allegedly had run out of virgins to sacrifice for the spring harvest, and this was deemed an acceptable alternative which pleased the great Cthulhu.
The original method of celebrating this holiday involved gathering your high school friends together, writing bad poetry, and then sending them to your English teacher. Thanks to the Internet, however, there are now myriad ways of celebrating this least holy of days.
The official band for Bad Poetry Day, due to their treading water in a sea of retarded sexuality and bad poetry.
The following poem hails from Canada. Remarkably, it has nothing to do with hockey.
There is an insecurity in the forest,
There is trouble of the wood,
Who think that applies with for the sake of many sunlight wants,
And him et. al you ignore.
Applying with trouble,
(and they are convinced of the rather correct thing)
It means that they are high exactly,
excessively grasping on all lights.
But if the collective likes the method of being made,
it is not possible to help their feeling.
And they when apply with why it is happy with their shade,
whether it is not, think in doubt.
There is trouble in the forest,
and any creative things are escaped entirely,
Apply with " Way you shout; Pressure! "
And mapley one shakes their heads exactly.
And therefore it was required
The equal right apply with to form combination.
"Oaked-ones exactly excessively is avaricious;
As for us in those in us light."
It makes give;
This time there is no pressure of leafy things above this,
because those approved noble law,
and as for the wood with the hatchet
which is the same
which is raised entirely, as for the ax, seeing.
The following is an example of a haiku, a powerful force for weirdness for poets.
I squirm angrily
Does that fish know my sister?
Taste my moist pumpkin
Partake of the tart apple
But don't squeeze my ham!
But lo! You insult.
You look down on us with spite.
Like William Shatner!