The professor is never nervous–but I was quite apprehensive the sudden.
I cleared my voice–about thrice–stood tall, and began to read:
“Dogs that are hot.
“Mustards and relish, onions and cheese.
“These are not poetic words.
“But they are.
“For my belly.”
There was a stunned silence in the room.
I should explain a bit. You see, Mr. Walt Walker and I have been on the hunt for the worst poet in the PL (Punchy Lands). And, Mr. Walker found a fellow named Dick Hercules, who wrote the…poem I just read aloud in front of a few PL’ers.
I shouldn’t have.
“That was the worst poem ever,” Daddy Salami mumbled.
“Let me hope–hope, hope, hope,” Fats Henry began, “that you didn’t write it! If you did, your worth just dropped in my estimation.”
V. Shnodgrate was also there. Which made things even worse.
He just shook his head and played with his sleeves.
Of course Shnodgrate was here. This was his class and he was teaching…poetry, I guess.
“Wow,” Schwarz Tauptinker said. “That was rather nice. I like the Frankfurters part.”
“Shut-up, cur!” Salami yelled.
Now the whole goal of reading that poem for V. Shnodgrate was to get him to say it was the worst poetry ever. If he said that, then we have succeeded: we’ve found the worst poet in the PL.
And V. Shnodgrate thought about it for a second. Then he said, “It’s really bad, but Schwarz’s was the worst. Would you read it again for us, Schwarz?”
“Yep.” And Schwarz stood and began:
“Oh, chickit, yeah…
“Hello and a goodnight.”
We’ve been foiled! But I’m sure Dick Hercules could do worse! Way worse.
I think that should be “Much worse”.