In late 2003 and early 2004, I hosted a series of poetry contests in Second Life. The challenge: to write the absolute worst poem possible in fifteen minutes, while incorporating eight randomly-chosen words. The virtual poets rose to the challenge, and the results would nauseate even a Vogon.
Seven years later, I plan to revisit selections of vile verse and post them here for your reading discomfort. You may recognize some names.
The first selection comes from October 21, 2003, where a handful of avatars gathered at Theatre Terra in Natoma. Random words: balaclava, dainty, eulogy, glimpse, herculean (or Hercules), kayak, massage, and yodel. Time: 15 minutes.
Kenzington Fairlight:
i don’t know what balaclava is/just that it’s said in aladin
the genie says it in a song/as you glimpse at his powers flashin!
after the scene, i massage my brain/he made dainty chics dance around!
this movie was so much better than hercules/my brain yodels, it does astound!
it makes me want to take my kayak/and paddle it through some sand
but i figured out that this can’t work/lola, isn’t this eulogy grand?
Lordfly Digeridoo:
Sitting on the steps wearing my balaclava,
Chewing this piece of gum that just lost its flava.
I yodel for a massage, but it just ain’t comin,
The old lady’s yelling at me, and my ears are numbin.
I stretch my arms, bored as a bat,
I decide to see if I can find this or that.
I go inside the crib, to catch me the paper,
And I glimpse a eulogy next to the latest caper.
It was a tribute to Hercules, our fallen hero,
The courageous peasant who worked his way from zero.
He was taking a daintly cruise down the Mighty Mississippi,
In a kayak of all things, and the weather was getting iffy.
Things as always took a turn for the worse,
He got nailed by lightning, and was taken away by a hearse.
His family was distraught, and so was the town,
The widow was dressed in an all-black gown.
I guess it happened yesterday according to the news,
I wondered why my neighbors were crying the blues.
So now I sit here, still bored outta my mind,
with my old lady, who’s robbing me blind.
I guess that’s how it goes, deep in the hood,
And with any luck, this poem won’t be any good.
Julian Fate:
O, dainty muse I do beseech
And sing thy vapid eulogy,
Massage mine brain to fervid heights
Of herculean poetry.
Inspire me that my words might glimpse
The heights and ever mixed verb tense.
Guide my kayak of sweet verse
Across the literary univere.
O, Muse whose creative balaclava
Covers o’er like molten lava
Let not Death’s rudeness crack my voice
But yodel sweetly, that’s my choice.
Neferon ________:
A man named Turger.
I feel as if a dainty… fainty slip of the spoon urged my kayak to capsize with unknow stuff.
That is also why my balaclava is so huff and puff.
The yodel i do is different then the need for eulogy.
And it is not a glimpse of phsycotherapy.
No no no none of these herculean words is mine, yet you need to heed thyself from the sheep, for it massages quickly.
And of course the fox is cunning and trickly.
Repeat is handy when doing things.
and repeat is handy when it comes to springs.
Repeat is handy when doing things.
and repeat is handy when it comes to springs.
The fly eat a hamburger because it does not eat a cheeseburger.
Music stops and ends when … o no the beat is hard and like a rhino very fast.
I once knew a man named Turger.
And he didn’t last…..very long
Stay tuned for more bad poetry from the oldbies of Second Life.
