Mini Mia's Poetry: The Crash
May. 3rd, 2009 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bloodyrosemccoyOne of the things under my bed was a “poetry portfolio” I had to make in what appears to be ninth grade. Behind a stack of bad poetry following formats like “Simile Poem” and “Permit Me Poem,” I tucked this goofy parody.
The Crash
Once upon a midnight dreary, I sat and pondered, weak and weary
Over how I could produce a poem that would earn me a good score.
So I could make the font look cuter, I thought I’d use my old computer
So I went and tried to boot ’er as I’d done every time before
Little was I ready for the shock I had in store—
For it would turn on nevermore.
Once again the screen I hailed, and once again my laptop failed
And I screamed and yelled and wailed, and stamped my feet upon the floor.
But it stood still and cold and mocking, and I found its silence shocking
And in my new chair I sat rocking, and I banged it and I swore.
Then I thought, maybe if I tried it just once more—
But it went “clunk” and nothing more.
“Dad!” I yelled, “I’m so abashed! I think my laptop’s gone and crashed!”
And then into my room he dashed, for fixing it would be a chore.
So I hovered near his shoulder, and he was rigid—like a boulder
And the screen stayed numb and colder than I’d e’er seen before.
But I grew tired and eventually began to snore
While Dad tried everything and more.
“It’s no use,” I sighed, “why fight it? I’ll have to use a pen to write it.”
So I took one up and tried it, just like in the days of yore.
The poem on its own was fine, and I wrote over twenty lines,
But it would always remind me of the laptop I could not restore.
No matter how much I’d implore—
It would turn on nevermore.
My laptop’s still there, dead and quiet, and each time I happen by it,
I feel I simply have to try it, just to see if I can maybe turn it on once more.
It does this on purpose—I just know it. Someday I’ll pick it up and throw it
Then it will be out of sight, far beyond my chamber door.
And I can get a new one from a big computer store—
That I’ll use forevermore.
My opinion of poetry then was about the same as it is now—if it doesn’t have meter and rhyme and/or it’s not set to music, I have little use for it.
At least I’m consistent.
Bonus limerick:
The truth of it is that my shirt
Has slowly begun to convert:
Due to rides on a bike
And many a hike
It now consists mostly of dirt.
The Crash
Once upon a midnight dreary, I sat and pondered, weak and weary
Over how I could produce a poem that would earn me a good score.
So I could make the font look cuter, I thought I’d use my old computer
So I went and tried to boot ’er as I’d done every time before
Little was I ready for the shock I had in store—
For it would turn on nevermore.
Once again the screen I hailed, and once again my laptop failed
And I screamed and yelled and wailed, and stamped my feet upon the floor.
But it stood still and cold and mocking, and I found its silence shocking
And in my new chair I sat rocking, and I banged it and I swore.
Then I thought, maybe if I tried it just once more—
But it went “clunk” and nothing more.
“Dad!” I yelled, “I’m so abashed! I think my laptop’s gone and crashed!”
And then into my room he dashed, for fixing it would be a chore.
So I hovered near his shoulder, and he was rigid—like a boulder
And the screen stayed numb and colder than I’d e’er seen before.
But I grew tired and eventually began to snore
While Dad tried everything and more.
“It’s no use,” I sighed, “why fight it? I’ll have to use a pen to write it.”
So I took one up and tried it, just like in the days of yore.
The poem on its own was fine, and I wrote over twenty lines,
But it would always remind me of the laptop I could not restore.
No matter how much I’d implore—
It would turn on nevermore.
My laptop’s still there, dead and quiet, and each time I happen by it,
I feel I simply have to try it, just to see if I can maybe turn it on once more.
It does this on purpose—I just know it. Someday I’ll pick it up and throw it
Then it will be out of sight, far beyond my chamber door.
And I can get a new one from a big computer store—
That I’ll use forevermore.
My opinion of poetry then was about the same as it is now—if it doesn’t have meter and rhyme and/or it’s not set to music, I have little use for it.
At least I’m consistent.
Bonus limerick:
The truth of it is that my shirt
Has slowly begun to convert:
Due to rides on a bike
And many a hike
It now consists mostly of dirt.
