Bad Poetry

Jan 262005
Authors: ohnathan Kastner

As an English major, I'm automatically a licensed poet. Since poetry is a theme in this issue of the Dish, I knew I had to spread my mad skill with words around, like jelly on a cat.

This first poem is an ode. Odes are poems that have been force-fed angst since a young age. This makes their muscles atrophied, which makes them tender and juicy, emotionally speaking.

An Ode to My Love

Her hair is like wine,

Her voice like a bee,

She's so beautiful,

I have to pee.

Pee like the river of love from my heart,

Pee like the finest of all works of art.

A leak that would express my love,

A leak for you, my turtledove.


A dove is a bird, of finest white light,

A dove is beautiful, lovely in flight.

But a dove is a candle to the sun of your beauty,

When you shake that gorgeous ghetto booty.

For you I would hold it for all of time,

For you I cross my legs like twine.

For your love is sweeter than bladder's release,

Or time on the toilet, quiet, at peace.

This next poem is a haiku. Haikus are smaller, more compact and generally more efficient than their American poetic counterparts. They should be read aloud with great reverence and followed by a gong.


Hunger strikes me deep

Value tacos, eighty cents.

Silent but deadly.

These next three are limericks. The most well-known limerick begins, "There once was a man from Nantucket," but due to rhyming and temptation, I can't print that one. Limericks are simple to make and enjoyable, and hence devoid of all artistic value.

My Thesaurus Rocks, But No One Understands Me.

There once was a John so estranged,

That many thought him deranged,

Although he was good,

He was misunderstood,

And so he was always harangued

And another, which I call "Loss."

There once was a cake most delicious,

Tasty, if not nutritious,

But it was eaten,

By my roommate, the cretin,

Whose chocolate-smeared face was suspicious.

And my last piece, which I call "A Sonnet of Fire."

There once was a guy who so alone,

Who had no queen for his throne,

So he moaned to his shoe,

"Oh what do I do?"

And the shoe didn't say anything, because it was a shoe.

Johnathan Kastner is a junior English major. His columns run weekly in the Dish.

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