Warning: this is a tacky post with poems that, well, are terrible, except the first and I didn’t write that…
Willie Shakespeare had a way with Sonnets. As you do. One of his more famous ones was his 130th…
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
So I thought, as you do, I’d have my own go at it. Which I did, a while ago…
And then Chelsea launched her latest Terrible Poetry Contest and I was reminded of mine because she wants Love Sonnets, terrible ones, and, well, really this has to fit the bill. Doesn’t it? Anyway, here’s my entry…
Only Skin Deep (After Sonnet 130*)
The azure of the wide Pacific seas
Has depth, unlike your bland insipid eyes.
A dancer’s legs are shaped by art to please
But yours are not for show, they need disguise.
My tongue, whose form can change to suit all tastes,
From gentle probe to pert, priapic beast,
Becomes a dry and flaccid thing, all chaste,
If suffocated by your doggy breath’s release.
Facial engineers, who can craft Kate Moss
From Quasimodo, turn and run a mile:
I’d give my soul to Satan, bear any loss
If they’d mould Venus from your Cubist smile.
Let’s face it, love, on me you’ve placed a hex:
It’s not your looks that bind us, just the sex.
and then I read a couple of Chelsea’s examples and, well, I decided to really let the side down with this (with due apologies to the Authors of the Book of Genesis) and took love as a verb not a noun…
It’s Really Not His Fault…
It had been, for God one heck of a week
So in fairness we should let it pass
And forgive that Adam, His coup de grace
Could have done with the odd final tweak.
The papers focused their gaze on the Fall
And those pictures of Eve in the buff
Where instead they should have done their stuff
And told us of His mighty cock and ball.
For Adam shouldn’t have needed a stiffy
To get himself into a sweaty old state
Where his only urge was to copulate
And his end was always so sticky.
And all he was given to perform this role
Were balls in a bag and a bewrinkled pole…
and for inspiration, well I couldn’t do better than Robin Williams