Can I Say You’re Hot

I’m so happy! I’ve just discovered The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. It’s a little-known fact that I love, love, LOVE terrible poetry which is trying to be… terrible poetry. Three or four years back a wrote a few Terrible Poems (note: those words are in upper case, which means they were intentionally terrible). I took a look at them, with a view to submitting them, but they were terrible! That is, they were awful – funny, but lacking poetic form. In order to submit a Terrible Poem, I had to rewrite a terrible Terrible poem and make it into a worthily Terrible Poem. Get it?

I chose Shakespeare’s sonnet: Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day. Basically, he’s telling a woman that she’s beautiful and she’ll continue to live and be beautiful throughout eternity, since people will always read the poem he wrote about her. It was a popular theme with him. Unfortunately, not everyone understands what he was getting at, so I have selflessly rewritten it to suit a contemporary market. Also unfortunately, I messaged a faulty copy to the contest, but hopefully that adds to the Terribleness of the poem. However, here’s a perfectly Terrible copy, followed by the Willie’s original:

You’re As Hot As I Get When I Win A Race

You’re as hot as I get when I win a race;
You’re pretty and you’re always sober.
Gales blow petals all over the place;
It’s like, as soon’s you blink summer’s over.
One minute I’m sweatin’ like a goat,
The next the weather goes all cloudy;
You always need to take a coat,
‘Cos accidents and nature make stuff dowdy;
But your beauty will never go away,
And they’ll never take you from the sunshine.
You won’t even die, ‘cos you will stay
Alive thanks to this pretty rhyme;
As long as there’s still people around,
My poem will hold you on the ground.

Here’s Shakey’s take on it:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Thank you, Chelsea, for injecting some fresh fun to my life.

©Jane Paterson Basil

18 thoughts on “Can I Say You’re Hot”

  2. Finally! A fair and level playing field for competing with your genius, Jane. A field upon which I at last stand a chance of beating you at verse in much the same way I already trounce you soundly at essays in epistemology!

    To Jane…

    I um don’t know
    But you look pretty hot
    To me
    And you’ve got brains
    Which is like you having
    Gravy on the cake
    Of your T&A.

    Read and weep, Jane. You are, of course, invited to my soon-be-announce coronation as the King of Bad Verse.

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    1. Yeah? Yeah? You’ll have to get past me first.

      Darling Paul
      You take the biscuit
      I’d trample your balls
      but I don’t want to risk it
      ‘Cos if you take a fall
      You’ll be much less friskyt
      so before one and all
      I’ll say Love you kisskiss

      I like to compete
      So read it and weep.

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  4. I totally agree: Shakespeare’s version is Terrible. Thank you for setting the record straight on that. Now it’s just a small matter of getting Academia to replace the old version with your new one. Shouldn’t be too hard, who reads Shaky anymore?

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  5. I’m laughing all the way to the footy
    Where grown men play like boys
    And women scream their tits off
    Saturday afternoon fun
    Watching a bag of wind being kicked
    No writing pen to be seen
    Paper only used to wrap the hot-dogs
    Brains are parked in neutral, at the bar
    And intoxication takes over ethical conversation
    The Pope is left out in rain
    He was looking for the club’s choirboy
    I’m at the urinal giggling
    Six months have gone, and I still pee on floor

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