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‘Hail, Poetry, thou heav’n-born maid!
Thou gildest e’en the pirate’s trade.’
– The Pirates of Penzance, Gilbert and Sullivan.
It strikes I that one thing that April showers in their munificence have not yet brung is bad poetry. (“What about that pizza post?” That’s different, that weren’t poetry, that was parody – see? “A likely story,” says you. On with the motley, says I— Ooh, a rotten tomato – all contreebutions to the com-post pile gratefully received – thankee, thankee, ladies and gents.) What we needs here is poetry such as would make a Vogon space-invader blush. Come on, now, I knows you has it in you – I’s seen it before – be it bad limericks, lurgid lyrics, or a haiku that’d move a samurai to kami your kaze.