Tag Archives: Chelsea Owen. Christmas

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I won the Terrible Poetry Contest!

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I’ve posted about Chelsea Owens’ Terrible Poetry Contest before. It’s ridiculously fun, and I try to participate every chance I get.

Well… this week I WON. Finally. After weeks of terrible effort. I’m so honored to be chosen as the terriblest poet among a bunch of astonishingly terrible poets. The prompt was annoying sounds (or something like that).

And now, on to the winning terrible poem, which I’m honestly embarrassed that I wrote (not really):

Poots

There once was a hairy old coot
Who loved to squeeze out a poot
It was stinky and smelly
Gurgled like jelly
And popped off a sound like a toot

But he wasn’t close to the worst
My granny caught poots in her purse
She saved up the sound
For when grandkids came ‘round
Then out of her purse they would burst

Now MY poots are dainty as roses
No trouble for delicate noses
They make a small putter
Wheeze or soft flutter
But they won’t curl your hair or your toeses

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I encourage anyone who loves to read or write terrible poetry (or just loves to laugh) to follow her and give her contest a try. 🙂 Plus she has a great blog. Thanks, Chelsea!

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The Fifth Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest

Every week, Chelsea Owens offers a prompt for her Terrible Poetry Contest. The submissions are all unequivocally terrible… soooo terrible that I eagerly await them, knowing that I’m going to laugh myself silly. This week’s topic should offer up some side-splitters. Want to try your hand at some terrible poetry? It’s harder than it looks!

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From Chelsea:

1. The topic is ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. This is my LEAST FAVORITE poem in the entire world – whenever it’s parodied. Therefore; I normally feel that every idiot who goes about with “‘Twas the night before Christmas” on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart; but this week you’re getting a pass. Strangely enough, I love the original. I have at least three favorite stanzas in there.

2. What’s the limit? For the love of my own sanity and yours, please keep it to eight or nine stanzas, maximum. That’s about the point of the original where we read I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

3. It’s gotta rhyme. At the end of the line. Make it fine.

4. Remember, remember: the poem needs to be terrible… 

(For the rest of the rules, the deadline, and to read some terrible poetry entries: The Fifth Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest)

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And here is my terrible entry for this week:

Tis the afternoon that comes just before Christmas Eve
And I’m rushing around like you wouldn’t believe
The dog’s barfed up tinsel, my tree lights are dead
I couldn’t find any clear ones, but the minimart had red
Just like Trump’s hall of fiendish stalactites
Or with the points up, does that make them stalagmites?
I burned a batch of cookies for jolly old Saint Nick
Defrosted some corn dogs from July that even then tasted ick
No carrots for the reindeer. No veggies! I’m out.
January better hurry up, cause I’m all tuckered out.
Fa la fella fa, dee da dee da
Fifi folly duh, ta da, ta da!