Professor Roy and the Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal - Amazingly Bad Poetry Journal Review - The Treehouse

The Treehouse
by unknown, but we'll call him (or her) 'George'

so this is America, right?

the rag-tag band of punkass bitches
who left the motherland
like a little kid
who takes three-fourths of a loaf of wonder bread,
an opened jar of peanut butter,
two pairs of underwear,
who yells “I hate you.”
and punctuates it with the slam of the screen door.

this is America.

big cars.
big houses.
wal-marts people debt airports ideas nukes
skyscrapers egos potential stadiums tax refunds

if only our minds
were as big as our shopping centers
And our potential

does that star-spangled banner
still wave o’er
The land of the free
and the home of the brave?


Listen, I despair of this country as much as the next red-blooded working man, but how will writing angry yet weak poetry get us through this crisis? I know I speak of all of us when I say that I wake up every morning not knowing how Christopher Nolan is ever going to top "The Dark Knight" if the third Batman movie ever happens. Should they just leave well enough alone? Remember what happened to "The Godfather Part III"? For a person as pessimistic as I am, I'm actually optimistic in regard to the country's future. That's assuming the country has a future. I don't really read the news, but I know there's a race of giant shape shifting robots, and while some are here to protect us, most of them are here to destroy us. And the little brother from the Disney Channel's "Even Stevens" is now President? I just hope I'm dead by the time Khan Noonien Singh starts the Eugenics Wars.

George's poem is obviously meant to be read in a poetry slam setting. You can tell from how it's constructed. It even follows some of the rules set by Taylor Mali's "How To Write A Political Poem". I'm surprised the author didn't try an "e.e cummings" style breakup of the lines. And where's the random cursing and ethnic slurs? We get the punkass bitches -- then nothing? Where are the Wal-Mart people fucking in their Hummers? I feel cheated. Rather, I feel gypped. Gypped just like like those wandering punkass bitches who founded our country! Hey! See what I did there? As for George's metaphor of little kids running away from home, it works a tiny bit if we're speaking of the original English settlers, disgusted by the Church of England and the Catholics. Except that a little kid, after running away from home, will inevitably come back home and our immigrant ancestors weren't changing their mind about leaving their motherland because they didn't want to miss "ALF." I don't know if I appreciate having my ancestors referred to as "punkass bitches." Unless George is full Choctaw or Iroquois, I don't think his ancestors would appreciate it either. And if he is an American Indian, I'd expect him to be considerably more angry.

George's poem isn't entirely negative. He points out the country's potential--twice... although he doesn't seem to have anything else nice to say. I've never fought fire with fire before, but he's my quick poetic reply to George's poem:

My country, 'tis of thee
fuck - remember when Bambi
was learning how to walk?
Above the fruited plain?
And Thumper said
"Kinda wobbly, isn't he?"
That's sort of
how
(from every mountainside.)
I (let freedom ring) feel.

Bad Poetry Grade [F = your standard bad poem; A+ = worst poem imaginable]: C-