Vogon Poetry Contest

Description: "Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe." -- The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. For all of those of you who have read the great 5 book trilogy by Douglas Adams, you know that Vogon poetry is pretty bad. See if you can write a poem as bad as the Vogons. If you do, you could see your poem here in all of it's disgusting glory!

Your poem must be bad, not in a way that is just sloppy writing, but that is thouroughly vile and harmful to the ears, while still bearing some similarity to poetry. Check out chapter 7 of the Hitchhiker's Guide for a good example.
This is not a standard poetry contest!!! I have recieved many entries from people who write a (normal) poem, then search for every poetry contest they can find. Read the submissions below. If your poem looks absolutely nothing like the ones that have been put up, yours won't either. Thank you for your cooperation.
Almost any Vogon poem is worthy of posting here, so this has become a "if you can follow the rules, you win" contests.
E-mail entries to tstone@trevorstone.org with the subject of Contest: Vogon Poetry

The Submissions:

From: evilfuzzymonster@myway.com (Tanith L'Fuzzymonster)
Ode 10101111000101010011001101011101010001 to pOTATO oF sNORK

Fnorkel purrs to thy gribbling wheezes,
Thy fervulent glorps, thy schmalcendent sneezes;
Fnorkel giggles at the gurpiest of fnorks,
Fnorkelish fnorks, and rapschilious sporks;
The purplified lost souls of poinks.

Thy peeling grawps offend my delicate xylophone of spam,
Yet I find my begurpled soul letting loose a barbaric YAWP
As Fnorkel continues to purr, and sneeze,
At thy defunkdified churgle.

Oh, blood-red eyes and tentacles!
Throbbing, pulsing ventricles!
Mucus-oozing pores, and frightful misquotes!
Pardon my infin/SPLIT/itive, while I recover
From glurfishly poor attempts to poke
Small, fninkel-wrought porks into Lewis Carroll poetry.

Like a summer throughout which all of my
Fninkle-flavored ice-cream-cones
Melt with a glurpssshhhhiiiiiiinkish sound.
While I snorfingly attempt to lick them!
From: Stewart.Brown@aculab.com (Stewart Brown)
Untitled

Prarg, thou turgly blunge did splurt
And flurged the obious gungerwurt.
In splomious geep the wargly turb
did trunge the ibnorious fobleberb
Wup! the flarmy orblesnarp wargeth,
transidoniously the trundlenorp splargeth.
But yea! the frappious hoobledrorg is gone
O blarg, o blarg, killed by a scone!
And yet the splantaneous phleg still plorgs
In World Wide Web and cybersporgs.
From: cdgreene@hotmail.com (Chris Greene)
ODE #410,987,392,347,980.039283

O speckled froth of gleebthung
I sing your praises grepaciously!
This fraxid toik of your frewishness...
Gleps my unprunching haloi!
So herked, so pointily herked,
I stand now before your brezalnigs!

Do you frequent peorious grancks?
Does your globule slowly renarp?
Oh Q-tip of magnofious nubfizz!
I fear we may never truly know your oimishness.
I hate your toenails.
From: schauel@mindspring.com (Donald Cagney, Jr.)
"???"

...but Frag! WHere's my liquid paper?
And when the bestials have knotted froeshness,
Then will be wilted pickle have moral worth,
Nebblesnatchitednessly as I munch upon its tangy somethingness.
This is where the deal goes bad
From: krael@mindspring.com (Matt)
Cherb Opus

Yes.
Bloodled bleet on blasted bagelhobbits
So floth of garbalest?
Yes.

So libe, errkled gerbilsnorting...
and soft - the straffed ortmorblet awakes!
...upon bleorg's toxic geeblefrenzy
Gob, Gob. I kid you not!

Yes.
Phleming to the final tube...
My omelot now done,
Yes.
From: Wayfinder7@gmail.com (Snoots)
ODE TO A BURSTING PIMPLE
(translated to equivalent English)

Oh Pimple, Oh Pimple, all rounded and yellow...
So very near bursting, upon my clean pillow
Shall I dare 'een smile, for fear that you may
Pop upon my friends as they might pass my way?
But as I sit contemplating on your puss
Perhaps you will burst without making a muss
And if you should thus burst, ah then, would I miss you?
Or rather, would I end your reign with a tissue?
Or needle, if access to one I might have
And treat where you've been with a topical salve.
Then look through the room to see where you have burst...

Urgent note from the establishment: Vogon poetry is a crime in 367 galaxies. Before continuing, please check your local regulations. For the love of God.
From: MVwaslike@aim.com
Untitled

Shpoink,
It laggered
Glarring toward the deep gaghecant ocean
With deep concentration
Of limphok mystery
And because of the waves ripple
That inpreded within the others
I sittered silently
Bloinking to the sound of its shwale
Like a smokey Hogan
That never grobbled
At anything else
Except for the gaghecant glass
From: Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex
Untitled
The dead swans lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Around occasionally.
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool's mire.
They also smelt a great deal.
From: paul_nganje@yahoo.com (Paul Nganje)
I HATE THY LOOKS AND MANNERS

I hate thy looks,
Thy big, bogus head.
Thy white shrivelled, withered hair,
That stinks like glabeshglum.
Thy bloody, bagshot eyes;
Thy long, hook shaped nose;
Thy pointed goblin ears;
Thy mouth which drinketh blood;
Red like the blood of the unicorn;
Thy teeth with distraught tentacles;
Long and sharp;
Thy horrible jaws with high cheeked bones;
Like those of beasts sitting on thrones;
Thy muddy, fraudulent face;
Adorned with pimples and rashes.

I hate thy neck like that Necadopolis,
Long with horrible hairy spines,
Thy muggy, bulgy throat,
With a terrifying, burly, droning voice.
Thy chest, big and puffy,
Hairy, and fat, and fluffy.
Oh! How thy armpits stink!
Tis' sweaty and smelly,
The cradle of boils,
Emitting uncountable gallons of pus.
Thy piggy and ever-consuming belly,
Fat and full of jelly.
And tapeworms own thy belly.
Thy thick thighs
Filled with meat, and beefy.
Thy skinny legs like hooked shaped pegs,
And lots of bloody dregs.

I hate thy skin is scaly, white and pale
Slippery with slime
And is beautified by pores.
It's rotten, stinks and is frail,
Flies lay their eggs on;
Worms and maggots feast upon.
Thy skin is adorned with ringworm,
Measles, roundworm and rashes.
Thy skin fades and falls,
Eaten contentedly by leprosy.

Yes, I hate it all,
Thou are as skinny as a broomstick (for I count all thy bones in a second) and yet as fat as an elephant (for I see naught but flabby flesh),
As dirty as a pig
Thou stinks like the rotten flesh of a skunk.
I hate thy looks.

I hate thy manners,
Thou art lazier than a sloth
And as stupid as a donkey.
As stubborn as a goat,
As mad as a bull
As haughty as a peacock (thy haughtiness is vain)
As wicked as a piranha which kills for vain pleasure.
Yes indeed, I hate thy looks and manners.
From: krael@mindspring.com (Donald Cagney)
Bleah: A Denial

Deliciously traversing the gas station,
I find my blibbly eye
Rolling around a Gestapo pie.
If my is then, why?

Ginkgo Biloba, goom.
Goom, for the Reynolds family,
and for their house dog, Philip,
Whom I have recently consumed in a fit of depression.
If not for my depression,
I'm sure I would have found him giggly.

Where art my fribblesnatchits?
Fie, for I have none,
But there! What gonders that?
A little tongue-shaped gnat.
Smashingly, I tooth his face,
Wetzel, like a pretzel.

Guff.
From: krael@mindspring.com (Matt)
Spoddles Respite: Verse 5

Light hurdles glurbaciously into its blargretched churl
*ulp* froom, so humble trips the omplotched strep
slowly, fromp the dancer
comes frelchingly

Light spreads in grulchropping clots
*erp* glum, glibed and wasted into swumpargulous swirl
spews forth from blargretched churl
stripped of all slarfgorbid whirl
...and ulsping
It seems so ragglemurspic
You better believe it.
From: Anonymous Gas Man
BURP

You are there for me to relieve my distension,
you comfort me after I ingest those greesy treats.
You are loud,yet gentle with a mild discharge,
a discharge so sweet,that reigns in my throat.
Oh burp,oh burp,my upper eruptions are defined by you,
my lower eruptions,the great farts,are nothing,
nothing but a poor excuse for a burp.
As you make way through my bowel,guided by your density,
as you explode upon encountering the rigid pharynx,
making me drool and giving my tongue the ability to trill,
I value the every molecule of your gaseous body.
Oh burp,oh burp,it is you,and only you.
I yearn for the moment to drink a big gulp,
without a single breath,without a second of rest,
to witness your formation in my unworthy gastric cavity,
to feel you emerge through my insides,
I will close my eyes as you make my lips say that one word,
your name,your sound,your essence.
Burp.
From: aacwa@crystal.com.au (Mark Schneider)
Ode to a slither of spume

Slither of spume! Slither of spume!
thy gloobiness is like the green gobblesnots of old
gleaming like the rancid drippings of gronffnurgleflopp
from a broiling vat of veeblewurst.

Just you wait
From: schauel@mindspring.com (Richard Cagney)
"Fiddle This"

Brash turgwarts brundle my vacuum cleaner,
VROOOOM and no survivors.
I heckle gleening at the grockens-
Murgberry strendle and mecklish sprachs,
Hagguous half-lives, vulcular hash,
Spreedly spoolish Jonathan Zaperachs,
All ground-up and duly processed into a thin casserole

*burp*
From: john@rezmerski.com (John Rezmerski)
Grace Lord Stoke, a forgotten contemporary of H.P. Lovecraft, blessed us with a little poem called "Prayer"

Oh Distengulkthuth, Sister-Bride of Uhl-Thuk
And Lover of Penslithmafilthnag and Brenth-Mulp,
Consort of Seschip-Laxnut and Punthipfor and Skuldragoth,
Concubine of Flemp and Sustakrishnot and Winthipnash,
Seducer of Duldeth-manemnot-pogakrem-melekalikimaka-pennoiboltch-steb,
And girlfriend of Chad and the Hypobarmian army,
Hear my humble supplication and may my offering
Of a ten-day-dead goat's entrails
Be in good odor with your puissant presence.
I have long suffered at his hands and glance of stern indifference,
And hope it is not too much to ask that I receive
Annually a frilly valentine addressed to me personally.
I ask this in thy TRUE name, which it is death to utter. Amen.
From: andrea@leesville.com (Andrea Hawke)
untitled

In dawn's first hour
snofblort cries like geartorn
greaseclots leeching for sturnfuss.
I long to hear the kleetchnit bleating
and dance with grizfitz
yiltsig dripping from the hortnift.
From: hb_home@telus.net (Howard J Bartel)
Shakazinthroop or Mirkzowblies?

Dost thou prefer shakazinthroop or mirkzowblies?
Shakazinthroop bequeath putrid glirbupoxes,
when heated by perkinzytugs of Buklorpadeen,
whilst mirkzowblies expectorate berzonvik hoo-peegs,
but not necessarily, sometimes they just ploog.
From: kahicky@hotmail.com (Katherine Hickton)
Sock Blues

Sock has wilted, Shrank inside my moist sweaty boot.
Too busy, late for my shift
No time to unlace and adjust.
I must continue with it rucked up
uncomfortably under the arch of my foot.

At least it's not as bad as the other week, when I accidentally put one on with a hole over the big toe area.
Sock peeled off at the end of the day, revealed my toe, strangulated, blue and corpse like in appearance and smell.

A tribute to my disorganisation
and lack of sewing skills.

From: snortar@yahoo.com (Barry Eshkol Adelman)
(With profuse apologies to e. e. cummings.)

         v
sickening
         o
 spoiling
         m
  garbage
         i
   making
         t
    spews
         i
     come
         n
      out
         g
       of
         !
        i