In 2000, David Taub, under the pen name of Wergle Flomp, tried to write a poem that was so bad it would be rejected by a particular website. He failed! Even though in unintelligible jibberish, he was told the poem was wonderful and would be published in a book…that he could purchase.
To commemorate this, Winning Writers organises the annual Wergle Flomp competition, rewarding humour and silliness. I know it’s legit, because I was a prize winner in 2005. Yay! Perhaps it puts me among the world’s craziest writers!
The rules of today’s competition are provided at:
Wergle Flomp Competition
These rules are different from when I entered. Back then, the task was to write, in jest, a parody of a known poem. You could still try something similar to mine for the current competition, or just for fun.
Here’s my winning poem:
Leedabole and the Froggy-hopple
A suddy croakamole: the sinewlade leggymires pushy still
Into the swoonupping girlyfling, her eyebolds transfissured
By the greeny webbles, her spiritule almire at his will,
She holdips his slimeblade bodyling againthro hers.
How can those terrifoldy stiff fingerloppers grippold
And holdify her potentimal princeling now slippy-slidingo from her grippylasp?
And how can bodyling, trying oh so hard not to over-trippold,
But feel the heartypumps
…near to burstivating where they lie?
A smacker-kisseroogy, maybold a smacker-kisseroogy will break
The magicome spell, retrove the prizal and princeling now appearifolding
Being so up-caughtafied with this,
So desperangle for successoscopy and not findy a fake
Did she abandonfile cautionment to the windy-puffs and fearfolding
Her last chancit was here, up-puckermole
Before the loosencaving fingerloppers had to let him dropple?
Do you recognise it? The original is Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats. The writing style is similar to that of the late ‘Professor’ Stanley Unwin (1911-2002)—with apologies. If you’re unfamiliar with Unwinese, I hope you will explore this site and listen to some audios.
Leda and the Frog
A sudden croak, the sinewed legs pushing still
Into the swooning girl, her eyes transfixed
By the green webs, her spirit almost at his will,
She holds his slimy body against hers.
How can those terrified stiff fingers grip
And hold her potential prince now slipping from her grasp?
And how can body, trying not to trip,
But feel their hearts near bursting where they lie?
A kiss, maybe a kiss will break
The magic spell, return the prize and prince appearing
Being so caught up with this,
So desperate for success and not a fake
Did she abandon caution to the wind and fearing
Her last chance was here, pucker up
Before the loosening fingers had to let him drop?
And…Leda and the Swan by W.B.Yeats
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
Another year’s unsuccessful entry…but it was fun to write:
MG Sonnet [LXII]
Sin of car-love possesses all my soul
And all my money, buying up spare parts;
And for this sin and financial hole
There is no remedy. So precious to my heart,
My old MG serves well in sunny clime
To set the clock back and remember youth
And all that carefree n’er forgotten time
Of chasing women in the small two-seater
To go fa-la-fol-da-rol a hey-nonny-no,
Down in the dingle or behind the dairy-o,
All in the merry month of May, June, July…
Curses! Good times unlikely to repeat
Now all is grey or wrinkly that’s above my feet.
Unborn tomorrow? Dead yesterday it’s true,
Still—the car looks great and the engine still revs sweet.
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed
Beated and chopp’d with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
‘Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
…Time to writing something sensible!