Previously from Annalisa Quinn: A new Sappho poem.
Film critic Alice Mays
Foamed at the mouth
And foretold the end of days.
The New Yorker’s Harry St Crownable
Proved himself unputdownable –
The needle missed the vein, and he
Fled the euthanizer, hooting with glee.
The Times’ stalwart Hugo Balwart
With a judiciously-timed riposte
Slew the boar, and ate its dripping heart.
Alan Hoarse, lover of the tour de force
Filled with bile — and yes, remorse –
Gauged out his eyes in a pleasing
Homage to Oedipus the King.
Eminent critic Neville Loonsdud
Sliced himself open
And drank his own blood.
In a speech both lyrical and lilting,
The kind and erudite Harold P. Stilting
Claimed allegiance to the gods of the sea
And drowned himself at Galilee.
Tags: Annalisa Quinn, critics, poetry
I loooooooooooove thiiiiiiiiis. *hearts and flowers everywhere*
this is great!
this is great!
Modified clerihews! RESPECT
This is delightfully Edward Gorey-ish.
(Nevilles never can catch a break, it seems.)
This is delightfully Edward Gorey-ish.
(Nevilles never can catch a break, it seems.)
The critics went fucking nuts! Kill! Kill! Kill!