‘Twas a grey day in February,
\nand evening fell like a dead canary…<\/i><\/p>\n
Thus begins this year’s winning entry in the annual Upper Dongle Creek Literary Society Bad Poetry Contest. Penned by Mr. E. P. Merdle of Fickle Fork, Iowa, “February” evinces a deft hand at poetic form animated by vivid imagination and the worst possible taste. When asked for comment on his victory, Mr. Merdle replied only that “the main ain’t got no culture.”<\/p>\n
First prize for 2022 is a box of five hundred pink erasers, a certificate suitable for framing, and a cease and desist order signed by six former U.S. Poets Laureate. <\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A Cautionary Tale, and Desultory Philippic<\/p>\n
by E. P. Merdle<\/p>\n
’Twas a grey day in February<\/span> Mantled cement Pekingese Twice-buried summer’s golden koi The archangel atop the tomb Oh, dim and clammy February! Ah, Mary! Sweet and tender lass!<\/span> How clear that first day comes to mind\u2014 Her flowing curls of fine-spun gold Her hands were soft as rendered lard, No dim and clammy February Now she sat close by the fire<\/span> I spied her figure through the window No more waiting, sweet my bride! Alas! Poor judgment my decision Oh, dim and clammy February Long time then I lay insensible<\/span> \u2018Twas my foot struck broken pottery And hit my head\u2014what was at fault? I gazed on yonder window-pane Oh, damnedest garden statuary What bitter tears my true love wept<\/span> \u201cOh, love,\u201d she cried, \u201cwho blest mine eye They buried me in garden grass Now Mary sits each night alone Oh, dim and fateful February So ends my dirge of February,<\/span> Though loss be our eternal portion, Consider well my humble rhyme, ‘Twas a grey day in February, and evening fell like a dead canary… Thus begins this year’s winning entry in the annual Upper Dongle Creek Literary Society Bad Poetry Contest. Penned by Mr. E. P. Merdle of Fickle Fork, Iowa, “February” evinces a deft hand at poetic form animated by vivid imagination and the worst […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true},"categories":[18],"tags":[55,595],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p8I1ci-1Bz","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6173"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6173"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6173\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6217,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6173\/revisions\/6217"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6173"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6173"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.davidwalbert.com\/dw\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6173"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nAnd evening fell like a dead canary.
\nO’er garden drear a pale veneer
\nOf mist lay on the statuary:<\/p>\n
\nAnd noble Buddha’s belly,
\nShrouded barren apple trees
\nThat e’er gave bitter jelly,<\/p>\n
\nEntombed in frozen pond,
\nAnd cloaked the naughty pissing-boy
\nIn ghostly fig-leaf frond.<\/p>\n
\nOf some forgotten scion
\nNow shadow’d too by foggy doom
\nAnd urging me to fly on.<\/p>\n
\nI vowed in garden not to tarry
\nBut hasten toward my cottage door
\nAnd the bosom of sweet Mary.<\/p>\n
\n
\nWe met beneath the overpass.
\nOn edge of town she flagged me down:
\nHer car had just run out o’ gas.<\/p>\n
\nWishing all would see us,
\nSweet Mary buckled by my side
\nTogether in my Prius.<\/p>\n
\nShe tossed like stormy sea;
\nHer skin was fair as fine brie-mold,
\nHer eyes like celery.<\/p>\n
\nHer lips ripe to be kissed,
\nAs red as the blush that gently marred
\nHer cheeks when she got pissed.<\/p>\n
\nCould e’er dissuade our love to tarry
\nBut all was summer\u2014’til fate tore me from her
\nMy dearest darling love, my Mary.<\/p>\n
\n
\nWaiting for her heart’s desire
\nWith patient hands knit woolen strands
\n‘Til I should come to sit by her.<\/p>\n
\nSilhouette by lamplight,
\nHalo’d soft as by a moonglow,
\nMy beacon in the damp night.<\/p>\n
\nI made my footsteps quick
\nThe sooner to be by her side
\nThough the fog had grown quite thick.<\/p>\n
\nTo haste through mud and gloom,
\nFor night had clouded o’er my vision\u2014
\nAnd thus I met my doom.<\/p>\n
\nThat stole me from my sweet Mary!
\nI stubbed my toe, and was laid low
\nBy a piece of broken statuary.<\/p>\n
\n
\nTo ought but pain incomprehensible
\nThat dulled my brain, as life-force drained
\nAnd left my limbs inextensible.<\/p>\n
\nLying hidden in wet grass;
\nMy legs flew out from under me,
\nI tumbled to my ass,<\/p>\n
\nNot Buddha’s noble belly!
\nYea! Round as earth and hard as asphalt,
\nIt turned my brain to jelly.<\/p>\n
\nWhere sat my lovely mate,
\nBut to her ears I cried in vain,
\nFor she knew not my fate.<\/p>\n
\nThat stole sweet love and life from me!
\nWithout light’s guide, I fell\u2014and died\u2014
\nThat dim and clammy February.<\/p>\n
\n
\nWhen\u2014alas, too late!\u2014she crept
\nFrom cozy hearth to scour the earth
\nAnd found the spot where now I slept.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cAnd made my heartbeat quicken!
\n\u201cThat thus should rage that noble sage\u2014
\n\u201cIf only I’d been Wiccan!\u201d<\/p>\n
\nBeneath the apple tree
\nThat my love in daily stroll might pass
\nMy bones, and weep for me.<\/p>\n
\nBy an empty fireside
\nWith a heart that’s great in sorrow grown
\nAnd a love that\u2019s never died.<\/p>\n
\nThat made a widow of my Mary!
\nHer love doth rot in a clammy plot,
\nAnd her garden’s but an ossuary.<\/p>\n
\n
\nThough my spirit lingers endlessly
\nWhere still abides my darling bride
\n\u2018Til death might loose her soul to me.<\/p>\n
\nYet good may come of our misfortune
\nIf my poor part be took to heart\u2014
\nNow gravely I importune:<\/p>\n
\nThat thou sharest not this fate of mine
\nBut leave to me my tragedy
\nOf marshy sage, toes, Mary, and time.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"