There are nine chapters, each with its own brand of pottiness, and each with it's own particular appeal to different kinds of potty persons prepared to probe its very varied versified diversities. The subjects differ from odd situations, odd people, odd animals, our very odd existence, - and even to our odd God. Also included for the more serious-minded, if such there be, are easily-read articles on architecture, serious music, and non-serious nonsense for those of a less serious disposition - perhaps also some serious laughs for those who don't take themselves too seriously. Prescribed dosage is limited to one poem at a time, preferably taken at bedtime, and best dissolved in scotch whiskey.

ANTHOLOGY OF AWFUL VERSE

By MAXWELL GORDON

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2008 Maxwell Gordon
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4251-2526-4

Contents

Chapter One

    ON THE ANTIQUITY
      OF FLEAS

    THE EPIC POEM BELOW
    IS REPUTED TO BE THE
    SHORTEST IN EXISTENCE.
    IT DOES NOT CLAIM TO
    BE AN ORIGINAL WORK
    OF THE AUTHOR, BEING
    DEEPLY ROOTED IN THE
    SOIL OF EARLIEST TIME.


    Adam
    Had'em!


    THE SNAIL'S GRIM PROGRESS
      AS OBSERVED BY A CASUAL CAMPER

    Before I could slide into sleep
      One latish warm evening of summer
    Strange creatures decided to creep
      Up the side of my tent, – two in number,

    Not making much progress, but still
      Intent upon having a race
    Each one being slowed down by its shell
      Revealing not much of its face

    Apart from twin horns that those creatures
      From out of their foreheads protrude.
    But what are those odd-looking features
      Are they feeling around for their food ?

    If feelings they have, they conceal them,
      No ! They're actually eyes on long stalks !
    As for legs, they will never reveal them
      For a snail only crawls, never walks.

    Behind each, those silvery trails
      Leave unmistakable traces
    One expects of such slithery snails
      At snail's–pace competing in races.

    On racing they seemed so intent
      So why should I wish them disturbed ?
    They would hardly endanger my tent,
      So why not sleep-on unperturbed ?

    But just before turning away
      To dream of some lesser event,
    The snail in the lead fell away,
      No longer to mess-up my tent !

    Some gust of the wind had him shaken,
      From the sides of the tent as they flapped
    His every ambition forsaken,
      At climbing he felt no more apt.

    Thought I, if some high-flown ambition
      To take one's first place in a race
    Then fall from a top-most position
      One would dive to the depths of disgrace.

    But out from my sleeping-bag squirming,
      At last coming out of my shell,
    I cautiously stood up, avoiding
      The chance I might stand on that snail.

    Then carefully lifted the fallen one
      To take him outside and to grass;
    His fate would be such an appalling one
      If one should unwittingly pass

    While walking on wet grass with shoes on,
      Then sounds the occasional crunch,
    Be you sure that some snail you have stood on.
      Are you tempted to have him for lunch ?

    Next morning, the grass was all dewy,
      I saw that the snail had progressed
    Unharmed and unhurried, – still chewey
      If a snail one should wish to digest.

    That pet-snail I thenceforth called Mar got,
      Pronounced with an unpronounced "T";
    The French call their snails "les ESCARGOTS"
      And serve them fried-up for their tea.

    They plop them in water to boil them,
      Then out of their shells do they wrench them
    Next, fry them in oil to embroil them
      In what is by method a French one.

    From the story, two morals arise :
    (1) Our human race moves far too fast !
    The snail that was slower was wise
      Being unhurried. The winner came last !

    (2) Think not all success is sublime ;
      Could be our own fault if we flop
    And end up a mess in the slime
      For we've farther to fall from the top !

    What is worse, should you feel so depressed
      That life fails to bring you much good on,
    There's always some ill-wishing pest,
      Who'd add to your woes saying, "GET STOOD ON !"


    JUST ONCE IN A BLUE-MOON
      AN ACTUAL SIGHTING IN LATE AUGUST 1950


  "Good heavens ! The sun's turned blue, turned blue !"
      That's what I didn't say, because
    The mates who worked with me, – I knew
      Would say "He's crackers, – always was !"

    Well hid amongst the trees, commissioned
      To gather, for the Forestry,
    From low-down branches, seeds sufficient
      To fill big canvas bags, – us three.

    Just trees, trees, trees, – of sky a glimpse,
      Was all we saw from where we gathered,
    Till stepping on the pathway once,
      I saw the scene still far from fathomed.

    "Come out a moment on the pathway,
      Just tell me what you see, you two."
    They slowly trudged out, standing half-way,
      "Good heavens, it seems the sun's turned blue !"

    As on we worked till time to stop
      Perplexed by what we'd seen,
    The sun shone on past ten o'clock
...