In memeorial to the worst poet in the history of creation I hearby dedicate this topic to the creation, sharing and propogation of what for lack of a better term I will call Vogon Poetry, namely dedicated to the worst in history.
Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in my Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived only by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled “Zen and the Art of going to the Lavatory” when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save civilization, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.
According to the Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy, the very worst poetry of all was Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Essex England…
History Revision here, the actual identity of the Very Worst Poet of all time can now be revealed as…
Paul Neil Milne Johnstone, a personal freind of Douglas Adams
Paul Neil Milne Johnstone was the person originally credited in the original radio play version of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy with being “the very worst” poet in the universe. The name given was that of a real person, who apparently was not amused, and complained. The name was therefore changed to “Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England” in all later versions.
The poem to which Douglas Adams indirectly referred in the original radio series (and directly referred in the television series) can be viewed here.
According to M.J. Simpson, David Thomas (a mutual friend of Adams and Johnstone) once said "Although Paul was miffed b
I’ll write it without the unacceptable words. I think you can all figure it out.
Clara and the Hoodoodlins
We never saw em, but she said she did.
She would get mad because they’d get in the house and poop everywhere.
One time Tim came to see her.
He turned his dog loose in the house and chased all the Hoodoodlins away.
Clara was happy.
Maybe they won’t come back.
Why does Uncle Pete hate me so
All he seams to want is my money
I ain’t done nothing to him of lo
So it strikes kinda as funny
Yet Pete demands that I must pay
To enjoy my trains ‘ere no delay
Or his Stormtroop lawyers will decend
And confiscate my hobby, that you can depend!
Tiss to protect ourselves, his lawyers declare
From calendars and model train makers
Pete eats his competitors, spits their bones
Then declares these remains belong to me!
To even look at them requires a fee
Twill be a sad day when one Christmas eve
A child will ask, What was a Train, Daddy?
BNSF, Why oh why
Did you have to take away
Our right to be
Within 100 ft. of you main li’
All we want to do
Is watch your trains go by
But now we can’t
'Cause you had to be such a b-i.
[(-D][(-D][(-D]
Please, do not disapprove, it’s the best that my feeble mind can produce. I’m not one with poetry. By the way, li’ is short for line.
Passengers will please refrain from flushing toilets while the train
Is in the station or while passing through;
Bums & hoboes underneath will get it in their eyes & teeth
And they’ll dislike it just as much as you!
If you want to pass some water please oblige & call the porter
Who’ll place a vessel in the vestibule;
The porter frowns on urination while the train is in the station,
He’s the one who cleans up after you!
If your efforts are in vain then simply break a window pane
A simple trick that’s used by quite a few;
But we encourage constipation while the train is in the station
TO stop the porter being in the pooh!
As I was walking out one night
I crossed two ribbons, polished bright.
The steel, I knew, led far away
A quest to follow another day.
And as I walked along the trail
I wondered what beasts lurked this rail.
Belching smoke and breathing fire,
Or sliding quietly beneath the wire.
My curiosity soon was soothed
As in the distance something moved.
The rumbling meant, I surely knew,
That a train would soon be coming through.
I stood beside the dormant rail,
And listened for the mournful wail
The trumpets blare, the clarion’s call,
The warning sounded for one and all.
A glint of light, down the rail I saw
And braced myself for impending awe.
A roaring monster, head ablaze
Rushing headlong into my gaze.
The ground it shook, my hat it flew
As the locomotives passed quickly through.
A wave, a toot, a friendly smile
Would make this memory last a while.
And then the railcars thundered past
With thumps and squeals until the last.
I turned and watched the final light
Then continued my walk out through the night.
As I write this on this forum
I hope my poetry will not bore em
I love all the trains, both steam and Deisel
But hate the Railroads, who act like weasels.
Once we sat and watched trains with purity
now we have to answer to homeland security
Gone is the day of the big heavy steam
replaced with the memory, the longing, the dream.
I had posted this on the model rr part of the forum but was asked to repost it here
The day was once
when in a frenzy
I’d purchase any HO, Pennsy.
Now North Western is my proto
for model trains
As well as photo.
Left-hand running,
Green and Yellow
All thoughts of tuscan
turned to Jello.
Loving Falcon
and 400, now sir
Lost all interest
In things Bowser.
Lesson here is
Don’t be dumb
Bravely trade
that GG1.
Boxcars have shackles
Coaches have seats
What SP served in its Automats
was recycled rhino treats[xx(].
Yak cheese and groundhog sausage waffles
Stareing me in the face as my head throbs
As I sit here wondering why oh why
Did I drink that diesel oil and habenero margurita?[xx(]
The gates were down but Simon Hay
Decided to his sorrow
To cross upon the right of way
His funeral is tomorrow
Burma shave