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A Vogon poem I wrote many years ago, because there is so little of it. It is hard to write good poetry and very easy to write bad poetry. Writing good bad poetry takes a special skillset. Apparently there is a character limit to prompts The full text is supposed to be this:
Blonde bush curler that rules the ever plaster plain of pleading. I generally beg, oh my succulent broccoli snip, to sniff the opulent wild musk, to breathe ever so boldly that wondrous amalgamated scent that you carry in a crate. I long to keep it by my side of beef and the warm it to the love of new sown weeds. I wandered aimlessly to the edge of the beard. I wallowed richly ever so richly in the pale green and brown foam of your love. Don't hesitate to chop my bold but ever so whining head from missing shoulders. Fear not, for I shall look at your bagged thighpoint, in a new wondrously benign way, that only my everlasting globule of a brain can understand.
