That time of year

[_KimberlyAnn]

Well done, Dr. Shades!

KA

[_asbestosman]

It's all about the meter and rhyme--a lesson Coggins steadfastly refuses to learn.

Your poem is funny, but where's the meter in this:
"while the Morg missionaries led tours of the grounds,
there was no trace of cheer to be anywhere found."

I kinda gave up and read the rest as prose after that. Much of it does have good meter though.

[_Zoidberg]

It's all about the meter and rhyme--a lesson Coggins steadfastly refuses to learn.

Your poem is funny, but where's the meter in this:
"while the Morg missionaries led tours of the grounds,
there was no trace of cheer to be anywhere found."

I kinda gave up and read the rest as prose after that. Much of it does have good meter though.

Huh? Sounds like perfect anapestic tetrameter to me. Like this:

while the Morg | mis-siona|ries led tours | of the grounds,
there was no | trace of cheer | to be a|ny-where found.

I could be entirely wrong, since I have always found English poetry to have rather liberal rules. You can contract words, and they don't have to end the same way in order to be considered rhymes. Try doing it in Russian. But at least you always know how many syllables a word has, so it's not confusing.

[_Dr. Shades]

Zoidberg, Mercury, and Kimberly Ann:

THANK YOU for the compliments!

Asbestosman, yes, Zoidberg was right: The entire poem was written in anapestic tetrameter. The syllable count and interval of stresses was precisely as she diagrammed.

[_asbestosman]

Huh? Sounds like perfect anapestic tetrameter to me. Like this:

while the Morg | mis-siona|ries led tours | of the grounds,
there was no | trace of cheer | to be a|ny-where found

Ah, you're right. I can't even remember how I read it before, but it didn't immediately work. I probably didn't change the inflection of words for the sake of poetry.

Here's my sad attempt that's only half-finished:


'twas the night before morning, when I found a spouse--
A creature of beauty, a wife of eight cows.

The carols were sung by my harem with care,
In hopes that polygamy her would not scare.

The children had wrestled for room for their beds,
while mommies and daddy had drowned in more debts.

And mammas in their mischeif and I in my crap,
Had just settled down from our ominous trap.

When out of the john there arose such a splatter.
I sprang to the bath to see what was the matter.

Away from the windows she flew like a flash,
Tore open our wallets and withdrew our cash.

She soon bare her chest in a now-parting blow,
Gave the lust clear of conscience to objects below.

When, what to my oogling eyes should appear,
But a miniature golf cart all ready to steer.

With a little odd driver, so lovely and slick
We hadn't a moment to waste. We moved quick.

More rapid than beagles--our speed was insane.
We whistled, and shouted, and called her by name.

Now dashing and dancing and prancing like pigs in
a coma is stupid. By thunder, a big sin.