As I tried and failed last year, and tried and failed many years before that, I plan on trying and failing to win fabulous prizes via the local classical radio station's Valentine's Day poetry contest again this year.
Think the following has a shot?
Did you even read it?
"Why? I know you wrote it."
Dearest wife! a gift, you crazy loon?
The money'll run out with a quickness, and soon,
for th'economy, yours n' mine, lies in shambles;
I feel like we've sprinted through brambles,
our skin slashed and torn open wide,
carried off on the blood-dimmed tide --
yeah, I thieved that bit, what's it to you?
Don't make me toss my tattered shoe
because, radiowaves, we're just about through.
Every year you wankers pick some chump
whose verse is worse than a thing that goes bump
in the bowl of my toilet after a pot of beans,
you goddamn weenies; it certainly seems
that you have no poesy in your bones.
Oh, I've tried melodrama, dulcet tones,
comedy and such -- grumble, I'm beside myself.
Might as well steal from that Ronsard on the shelf.
Sigh. Unka Dick, line? Go fuck yourself.