Judges—dear judges—be kind to me this round; This poem is not so great, but my next one will astound. It’s so sexy it will steal your girlfriend, Or if you’re married it will steal your wife. My next poem, in the next round, is going to change your life. I hope you get my meaning, but it’s best to clarify, You have at your disposal just one way to verify: If you want to hear my best poem—the one you will adore— You’ll have to give this mediocre one the best and highest score. Some might say I’m pandering, offering emoluments to judges. To them I say stop slandering, we all use winks and nudges. We write and recite in a plot to incite These good folks to give us reward. What harm if I promise my best rhymes next time? Nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more! Dear judges: this poem, in this round, saw the cars you arrived in tonight— Not that it was spying on you. We all know that all license plates Are right there in plain public view. This poem’s not saying bad things will happen; It makes no threat, you have no legal claim. It’s just saying that if bad luck does strike, What a lamentable, preventable shame. (Then it says “just kidding,” so I wouldn’t worry.) But why dwell on negatives? This glass is half full, Nay, this stein is near overflowing! I assure you my next poem will inspire delight, So all that remains is the showing. But I can’t do my part until you do yours, It’s really quite easy you see, now. Consider the range of scores you can grant, And just give the highest to me. Now. No one enters a slam to prove they’re the worst; That’s not how it works in these joints. I can prove I’m the best—next round, at the earliest— If you give me high enough points. Don’t torture yourselves! Put me through! Don’t experience agony and strife! Not this poem in this round, but my next poem in the next round, Is going to change your life.
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