Captain's Log, Day 18: Bad Poetry--or Good?

            I can’t rhyme. At all. It’s pathetic.

            I’d kinda like to write a song eventually (part of the reason I’m trying to learn guitar), but I think the odds are against it. I’m not exactly musically inclined. On the other hand, my brother Nemesis can rhyme the most obscure words I’ve never even thought about trying. It’s annoying. Fortunately, he can’t sing either, although he’s amazing with a piano, but don’t tell him I said that. My sister Quill is a pretty good poet, too. For a while, they had email flame wars, where they would email threats in poetry back and forth…as I could intercept all of their emails, I decided to copy them down for posterity. Some examples:

            Nemesis:

Ho ho to your threats in the mail, say I,
I shall tell this to thee with a gleam in my eye.
To dissuade your rambunction,
My cannon shall function,
And you and your laptop shall fry.

            Quill:

Art thou as blind as a bat? 
Is that your head or a hat? 
Your cannon's threat causes no alarm,
Since your aim cannot scare the side of a barn,
And I'll wield my fish with a mighty arm,
Causing you and your minions to scat.

            It got much worse—or better? Eventually, they took on spoofing other poems; check out the Poetry page. I guess they got it from Dad, who was once asked by Mom to teach us some Robert Frost. It ended badly…

                    Whose woods these are, I think I know
                    His house is in the village, though
                    He will not see me stopping here
                    He’s at the tavern, drinking beer.

                    My little horse must think it queer
                    To stop without a farmhouse near.
                    I say, “Hey, I’m the one who’s going to steer!
                    Be quiet or I’ll leave you here!”

                    He gives his harness bells a shake
                    To ask if there is some mistake
                    Then I hit him with a rake
                    This crap from a horse I will not take.

                    The woods are lovely, dark and deep
                    But I have promises to keep
                    And now, before I get my sleep,
                    I go to where the rum is cheap.

           

            Guess how often Dad was asked to teach us culture after that…I’ll give you a hint. NEVER!!

            Maybe I should ask one of them to help me? Nah, messing my idea up would be inevitable…