I have some awesome online friends. They are fearless and have mountains of self-esteem. They dug deep and sacrificed their good name and reputation in order to keep me from being the only wretched soul airing my bad poetry, and I thank them for this.
And you, the readers, have chosen a Bad Bad Poetry Regent; one who will rule from on low until we drink too many beers, forget how painful this was, and decide to do it again. I checked the votes at midnight on Friday to see who would be crowned, and I present to you your Queen (by a very narrow margin): Jessica Commins, whose anguished musical poem “When Songs Become Dated” brought her to this sad, sad day.
Queen Jessica’s poem ran neck and neck with Hugh Hollowell’s submission nearly the entire course of the day, and for a while the blogoverse wondered whether the dead cat poem — which sticks painfully in the mind like Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” — would topple Commins’s misery-laden love-gone-wrong song.
Hugh, I wanted to award you a gem-studded sword as a second prize in order to remind you that the pen might be mightier than the sword, but sometimes a sword is just a better choice of toys. My boys will affirm this, in case you doubt.
Jessica, you will soon be the (tearful?) recipient of a white satin sash with blue glitter iron-on words that proclaim you our BBP Winner. I would have made the sash say “Winner/Loser” but I didn’t have enough o’s. It also has several winged skulls with little hearts for eyes, which I think add just the right touch of painful kitch and would probably serve as the perfect logo for our next contest. My 9 year old (pictured) helped me make the sash in return for payment in candy corn. Sadly, all you get is the sash. And the infamy.
People, go dig up your old love letters, bad poetry, and related detritus and burn it now. Or else have it close at hand for the next Bad Bad Poetry contest. Because nothing, no nothing in the world is better than a sash with glitter letters. (And the next one might have fringe…fake fur!…stick-on-gems! Hey wait, don’t burn those poems!)
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