They’ve got everything else so why not bad poetry generators? Yup, they’ve got those too. I went looking and found just one, which I share for your hilarity and horror today. If you have a poetry generator you like, let me know, I’d love to see that. Hilarity and Horror don’t make strange bedfellows, they blend up into brilliance in this, and I’m sure, other poetry generators. All you do here is plug in their options which are pre-programmed (and pre-copyrighted, I have offered fair warning, therefore, be ye warned).
My goth poet nom de plume shall be The Purple Pain, and I shall write of the meaning behind the meaninglessness. Should you read of anyone else using The Purple Pain as their moniker, it’s probably not that original an idea anyway so let me know because that’d be hilarious too.
That Deadlounge place is hilarious, they even have a tutorial. Brilliant. So you don’t have to use their generator, you can just read the instructions and do your own (and copyright that). But I want to read it, especially if it’s bad. And by bad, I mean good. If you can work some puns in there, that’s equally awesome.
As a geek the size of a planet, I am a huge fan of Douglas Adams, and therefore I am acquainted with Vogon poetry as well. But that poetry generator doesn’t work at least no the last time I tried. What’s your favorite style of good or bad poetry? Who’s your favorite poet? If you like Deon Mumple, go ahead and give a like and a comment with honorable mention, because no, his head isn’t already big enough. If it was, he’d close a blog entry like this one with a poem, like, say…
The Purple Pain went down the drain,
Because they said he was insane,
Demons of hell stir there as well,
And isn’t that just fucking swell?
Fuck! All he really wanted was love, man.
But no, true love Pain did not find,
And so poor Purple lost his mind,
For evil twists the innocent,
And the whole world appears hell-bent
On getting straight to hell fast as they can.
And death and choices chase us to the grave.
And we who strive to raise the hive
Bee-come too worn and lose our drive
Emotions flow as slow as dreams,
From which Pain awakens with screams,
Then Purple pours a cup, hot, muddy brew.
Poor Purple, overwhelmed in fear
Alone, fitful sleep disappears,
Now hostage to jentacular pursuits.
And eggs and rashers push us in the grave.