Vogon Poetry

Vogon Poetry

Thank you to Prostetnic Twulve and The Neanderthal for assembling the following for me.

Attention, Imperium Starport Air Traffic Control, as per Imperium regulations for entering usage of Imperium Resources, I give notice that Prostetnic Twulve of the Vogon Heavy Industries Surveyor Sphere requires landing vector at the Imperium Starport. As per The Forms and generally accepted Admiralty Laws, I inform you that Vogon Heavy Indistries is not in the system for demolitions.

Vogon Heavy Industries is a wholly owned subsidiary of Vogon Bulk Industrials (VBI). Vogon Bulk Industrials (VBI), as defined for these purposes, includes all facilities, property, products, services, officers, employees, representatives, dependents and lackeys of any Vogon controlled agency, Vogon contractors, or related businesses.

Vogon Bulk Industrials (VBI), accepts no responsibility whatsoever over whatever jiggery-pokery comes to your mind that you might imagine to be thoughts and spewed forth from your mouth that you might construe to be opinions.

A pervading foul attitude is standard, VBI accepts no responsibility whatsoever for occasional lapses into near-pleasantness that may occur, nor ironic juxtaposition that you may find humourous

As official policy, we cannot thank you for using the products and services of Vogon Bulk Industrials, nor can we wish you well in your future endeavours as that could imply some warranty which has a greater implied liability than the possible goodwill it might engender.

'Our Love is Like a Bowling Ball'

Our love is like a bowling ball

Like a brand new Brunswick Red Zone

It rolls and rolls down the alley of desire

And rolls and rolls and rolls.

I will keep you out of the gutters

And put my fingers in your holes

Every embrace a strike or at least a spare

Our future a perfect game

Our love is like a bowling ball,

Our scores will rise and rise

I shall never step beyond the foul line

And I will rent your shoes.

Now a classic by Britney Spears written during her Rehab Period.

The guilt you fed me

Made me weak.

The voodoo you did

I couldn’t speak.

You’re awakening

The phone is ringing.

Resurrection of my soul

The fear I’m bringing.

What will you say

And what will you do?

She’s not the same person that you’re used to.

You trick me one, twice, now it’s three.

Look who’s smiling now

Damn, it’s good to be me!

A Peace of My Mind, by Charlie Sheen

Teacher, teacher, I don’t understand

You tell me it’s like the back of my hand

Should I play guitar and join the band?

Or head to the beach and walk in the sand?

Tiger Blood Winning!

'Space Fungus'

The Fungus repubbles up over my skin

My dangling brugrus laments its boil

I sit up

The flobbering coil of sticky sweet munsk lends to the floor

My old flesh grows a new tuft of scales

The odor of alien stars

Stop picking at it, its bleeding

'Ode to the Rash on my Glittish Contorinosh'

Part One

Oh rash,

How thee's painful welts

Make my skin flitualate rapidly.

And a magnificent orange pus

Ejaculates from thy rancid open sores.

The stench of infection permeates the air,

As you cause my stomach to reject its contents

Up through my olfactory organ.

Part Two

Oh rash,

Your putrid countenance

Distracts me temporarily from

The freshly released tummy goop

That has now intermingled

With the scent of the fruits of my bowels

That has trekked from the bathroom

As circumstance doth distracted me

Part Three

Oh rash,

As I contemplate your meaning,

Darkish spots blocks my vision.

My rash,

It seems Death as knocked upon my door,

And was utterly disgusted by the dried snot on said door,

So instead decided to remotely end my life.

Part Four

Yet Rash; know this,

Yet Rash; know this,

That my love for thee is always,

That never shall I forget the pleasure you wrought me

When I poked at you with the same finger I had just used

To relieve my nose of excess buildup.

Part Five

Oh rash,

The time has come.

Farewell, my love,

And may your countenance

Forever grace this world with splendid dunfiddly.

Farewell, dear rash.

Farewell. Pass the ointment

From the works of Charlie Sheen, during his Winning Tiger Blood period.

hey Ashton

sorry bro

all good.

now quit barfing

on my old

brilliant show.

Remember

Punk'd?

how duz it feel?

Notice the brevity, that sneaky rhyme ("bro" and "show") appearing when you least expect it? There's no question that Sheen has read Dorothy Parker. Or, at the very least, somebody read Parker to him. Or strippers explained Parker using interpretive dance. Sheen captured Parker's taut, acid wit, Iand tight, rhythmic patterns. Parker might not have used the word "barfing" back in the 1930s, but if she were alive today, she would not doubt have used it. She'd also be over 600.

The enigmatic Kutcher published his own bit of verse on that selfsame day. It goes like this.

"Rockland plantation stone ground grits, gulf shrimp, crispy benton's country ham..."

Whether it's a veiled parry to Charlie's more straight-ahead thrust is uncertain. But one thing is for sure: There's no mistaking Kutcher's poetic debt to William Carlos Williams. The gorgeous, uncluttered natural images. The symbolism of the ham (the ham is Sheen I think.), and Kutcher's exquisite restraint. You might say the tweet is incomplete, because Kutcher ran out of actual words. I prefer to think that he wants us to imagine what happened after the ham was presented. He's left it up to the reader. Just like Williams used to do.

In case you think that all of Charlie's poetry is merely caustic and Kutcher-cutting, think again. Just the day before, the soulful Sheen reached out to his former co-star Jon Cryer. And composed this little ditty:

hey Jon!!!

u r a GENIUS!!!

I effin

love and

MISS YOU

old pal!

Q; who's your lame side-kik?

You're probably thinking that Charlie hasn't just been starring in a new sitcom, banging porn stars, hitting the meth pipe, then banging more porn stars; he has obviously been reading E. E. Cummings, too. You can’t miss the letters used instead of words. The brilliant appropriation of Cummings's lower-case style, not to mention the great 1920s poet's contempt for authority; in this case, Ashton Kutcher. And, as with Cummings, it's not just a question of remarkably deep content, but the words are arranged on the page like a painting. They're as remarkable to look at as to ponder.

You may have come to the unfair conclusion that Sheen is merely as self-absorbed as an autistic chipmunk. Not true! He also makes it clear in his work that he's every bit as interested in geopolitics as the next guy, assuming the next guy is Ashton Kutcher or Jon Cryer. Just when you think that losing his gig on Two and a Half Men is all that's obsessing him, Sheen composes this brilliant broadside about world events.

this is the

house ware

M Gorbachev

R Reagan

did some epic.

it's also where

S and I

GOT MARRIED!

Notice how Sheen ties the political to the personal here? Comparing some Perestroika activity to the very spot where he got married? There's no question that the man's been reading up on his T.S. Eliot. I haven't figured out which part of Four Quartets this is most reminiscent of. But that's less important than Sheen's inference that Gorbachev and Reagan "did some epic." Is this referencing a political act? A sexual one? Is "did some epic" a drug reference? It's really not all that important that we know for sure. What is important is how it makes us feel. More that we need to really keep an eye on Charlie now. And no longer just for his gun-toting, hotel-trashing, spouse-abusing antics. All eyes are now on Sheen's tweets. Did I say tweets? I meant poems. Sheen is really onto something. Forget the petty squabbles and the score-settling. The cat is writing a new page in Modern American Poetry. And if you're smart, you'll keep paying attention. So someday, you'll be able to tell the grandkids, "Yep. When Charlie Sheen was writing those words, kids? I was there!"

The native Vogon Language is filled with expressive and vivid sometimes florid onomonopeia. This is an intercepted damage report, or at least we think that is what it is.

"Ahem Harrumph. Coo, cooee, cooey."=^=

"BLAGONGA! Oy fooey pfft kkabish. Uuffda whammo yiff whap-whap. Whoa!"=^=

"Argh Aargh Aarrghh! Tchick. Ai-ay-aye. D'oh, jeet kaboom!"=^=

"Mwah, mwah, mwah. Bah! Chop-chop."=^=

"Cor! Bam! Eaw ecky-ecky-ecky. Yikes! Pfft pfui! Wwah, wwaah. Whew. Tsk tsk. Uuffda."=^=

"Whammo fap-fap-fap fu feh feck fooey fark frick frack fook fsck gack iick ikr ish!"=^=

"Meef oi nerts meh nee. Nnyah nah-nah nah nah. Phew, rat-tat-tat. Rawr."=^=

"Yoinks. Oops, phwoar. Zoinks! Crack, pop, snap, pish-pow. Ugh, youch!"=^=

The following is of undetermined authorship, all we know is that it is poetry selected by Vogons to punish others:

'Blackness, Blackness'

Blackness Yet

More Blackness

Velvet Blackness, Gnawing

Ever Gnawing, Gnawing

Gnawing at my Soul

My Soul Aching, Aching More

Ever Aching for the Dawn

Dawn retreats, Fearing

Fearing, Ever Fearing for the

Time when Blackness Once

Again comes Gnawing,

Gnawing at its Soul

Oh stop whining and pay the bill.

'Ode to You'

You are the starlight to my moonshine

You are the summer of my mind

You can complete a perfect square

And still make jocks stop and stare

   

My heart goes boom

'Make me a sandwich'

You can make a perfect sandwich

If you want to

Baby I won’t force you

But please don’t lay on that mayonnaise

Unless you want to

My stomach has room

You are so beautiful

Make me a sandwich

angst for nothing

encroaching blackness lies bleeding on the uncaring sands of time

pain is good

pain is nice

pain is worth the sacrifice

i fling myself face first from this vale of tears into the black strangling nothingness that birthed me

No doctor dare lance this dread haemorrhoid on the rectum of the universe, prostate with pain.

the sky is falling, the sky is falling, the sky is falling

Fear is the maggot of the soul that gnaws incessant

i dine in hell from the menu is nothingness

i drink the bitter wine of the mankind dregs

my cup overfloweth

'Moosehead'

Which one was The Moosehead?

Eleven Syllables which I do not Rhyme

My heart is in my...yuck.

I'm surprised it's gone this long

Their Tits? they don't - That's The Problem

I'm you're biggest fantom!

Neat Spiral Staircase!

Trained Ravens are Red

Roses are Black.

I Think Bad.

'Footsteps like Heartbeats'

Slow on the Uptake

Fast on the Drawer

Gonzo are Guns, they're gone

Bing Bang Bong

Plea to the Magical Rabbits'

Once upon a time

A horse stepped on a cheese sandwich,

Someone sound the chime

Ahoy! Ahoy!

The rainmaker calls,

I can taste the light!

Sweet Gary Coleman above,

Fall upon us like washing machines.

Lament! Lament!

Once a hero,

Now a zero,

Praise the day!

'Puppy'

I had a lil bunny once

It died the next day

It made me feel

A peculiar way

I found a bunny once

So happy and free

I saw it and

It followed me

The bunny was pretty

I closely watched him

So good and kind

Nothing good can exist

Good just doesn't fit

The universe's law

I strangled it

'Ode to Kai'

All night with my Kai Kai

All night with my Kai and I mean this

I ran my hands down his chest

All the way down to his...

Man! This cryo-chamber is cold!

All week with my Kai Kai

Embracing his frozen mass

I love his pale smooth skin

And his cute, tight little...

Oh cwap! My tounge iv spuck po hiv meck!

(rrrrrrip) OOOOOWWWWW!!!

All month with my Kai Kai

His body I wish to lick

I'd start with his luscious mouth

And work my way down to his...

Damn! It's FREEZING in here!

All year with my Kai Kai...

Aw Hell! I'm going to bed!

'Pretty Pink Flower'

I saw a pretty pink flower

It was pretty

It was pink

It was a flower

Oh, pretty pink flower

So flowery and pink

I think of pink

And think of pretty

I think of flowers

And think of pretty

Oh, so natural

Pretty pink flower

How I love thee

Pretty pink flower

Pretty Pink

Flower

Pretty

Pink

Flower

'The Cure'

I slake my slimy lust in your embrace.

I desire you as I would desire heat rash,

To gauld my groin to an itchy passion

That no alchemic Gold Bond powder or

Blue Star balm in Gilead could cure.

The salinity of your love draws my life's blood,

Rendering me gelatinous as though I were pork fat.

I lord over the lard of my love,

Out of the frying pan and into the fire,

My manhood having been well done.

Beat your eggs to a froth! Whip my cream!

To thrill from such malcookery!

Apply your love's sauce to my abused sites

In a plaster to muster the mustard

That seeds my sweet sweat.

'Smeet'

Smeet the smite

Gravel feet

Rhyming smeet

Sweet smeet meet

Sorrow hollow smeet

Hollow smeet street

Why don't I just die

Smeetly die

die

die

'What I Did for Money'

A chance

thrown to the wind

hope tied to it like little whatsies

Poetry

gnarled and useless

dismembered beyond all recognition

The things I do for money

How Fruitless They Seem

'Hairy Fairy'

I love a Hairy Fairy

I nuzzle him all over

with my Leprechaun beard,

and faint in his armpits,

and in his legpit I swoon

then frolic in the moon

light and we both drink champagne

'cos we both are hairy men.

'Darkness Falls'

The movies flicker across my mind

Like lilacs in the wind

And mermaids sing of birds

With long eloquent and prosaic words

Biting back into the theocratic oranges

I wait for my twist

To get this

And carry me away to some dark bris

May the radio waves forgive my soul

The evening bowl

Fortune is waiting

For the everloving koi pond I've been so heartily baiting

Darkness Falls

'A late Thursday afternoon in front of the refrigerator'

As I opened the refrigerator I felt all of my hair fall off.

It landed in a nice pile on the floor and hurriedly hid under the trash can.

As I took a deep breath I felt my toenails crack and my left hands fingers fell of.

I saw my nose turn black of gangrene and a second later it joined my fingers.

As I bended forward my heart stopped beating and the world fell into darkness.

It was then I understood that I should have gotten rid of the medwurst a long time ago.

'Let Me Kiss'

Let me kiss upon your squashy lips

Lips almost skin-like.

Let me feed upon your hair, darling

Long and brushy sweet.

Your breasts, one a little smaller than the other, are like two unequal pears [are]

Bring Me them on your feet.

Let me splash in your puddle like a boy splashes in one with his foot

Oh

Let’s be so gay

And make love,

And escape away

And by the bay,

And roll in the hay

On a sled.

Neigh! Nay!

Whinnies the horsy

His horsy paws prancing in front of two lover people like us two

Like two lovers on an ecstasy high.

I love you even more so than you could ever possibly love me back

Scratch my back

And I to you will also do, too.

Let me kiss and count the ways…

No. You should count

For it would be wrong for me to do so first before you do it first before I do.

Oh

Let me just Kiss…

'The Hairdryer'

The pain, oh so deep

into my soul it seeps

I am no longer a whole

into the mirror, I see no soul

I take a handful of these pills

as long as grandmas dills

they help to ease the pain

remember daddy, you struck me with your cane

water flows from the faucet

makes me think of daddy's faucet

it was hard, he couldn't be

I cry, oh how he used it on me

Hairdryer of sorrow, rest firmly in my hand

prepare to take me from this land

I take my last breath

and beat myself to death

with the hairdryer

'Ode to a Meece I Caught This Morning'

O, late Meece

You may not rest in peace, you still have work to do.

Thy lust for cheese, brought thee to thy knees

Thy brown paper bag coffin, which I've used so often

Shall ever be thy bed, now that thee are dead

I heard the snap of thy deathly trap

My ego puffed as thy life was snuffed

In thy grave of plastic, enter the realm fantastic

A tasty snack, your death be not in vain.

'Cathay Doll'

Pulchritudinous porcelain 'plexion

Like a China doll's,

but soft as a spade-spurned sexton.

Ruddier, too; not pale of bone.

Nor Cathay-born, she;

A girl from my British home.

Eyes brown 's a tavern rug

ne'er beaten nor swept.

Liquid 's a drunkard's who's

not recently slept.

A Writer! My diction;

She can't have missed it.

Likewise my elocution:

Who could resist it?

'Jello From the Moon'

Oh the sky is purple-green and the birds fly up their noses

Dodging the green jello that's dripping from the moon

And the sun is small and yellow and it's smelling up the sky

Because the world is sweaty on this day-night of June

Where the hell is my banana? It's flying 'round the room

And the orange rolls up nightly, it's a stupid little guy

Oh my rainbow is a tricycle and rolls me 'round the world

And drops me on my nose 'cause I've fallen from so high

Oh your eyes they do freckle dear, why oh why oh why?

Come here and kiss my elbow before it runs to France

If the warts on frogs and mushrooms were using Oxy 5

Would the world be pink and rosy, if they only had a chance

The paisley and the argyle sing pretty little tunes

About the love of money and the ringlets from the carrots

But the time it writes it's name on tiny little cupcakes

It frosts them with some plaid and throws them to the ferrets

The chalk it rolls, it's smelly too, alas, my socks do cinder

But the bloo is in the toilet and it's winking it's eye still

At the pink strip-teasing trees that fly to the green jello

Still dripping from the moon and tasting light of dill

"Do you speak in tongues, dear, does your elbow run to France?

Hey, what's your sign, baby? Do you know Marquis de Sade?

Can you fly up to the moon that's dripping with green jello

And fish around inside it to feed yourself on cod?"

Oh, this is what the dogs say as they run from to and fro

And the moon and sun do wander from the north into the south

But the pigs sit on the checkers and free the knights and lads

And go to Chattanooga to put things in their mouths

The pencil and the pen went bowling in the sunset

Because the Appalachians became a bit too small

And the buildings in them wonder about the iron board

Why does it smell of turpentine, why doesn't it just fall?

Seconds tick and write their names on pizzas large and tiny

Because the frogs all sit on chessboards and wander to the wall

The keyboards only laugh confusedly and drop the black keys to T.V.

But cheese graters all stare blankly at the fireworks in the hall

Venetian blinds sing to Venetia, she's a tiny little god

And the world is a brick building with Venetia on a rafter

She cocks her head, she cocks here eye, she smells around a bit

Picks up a crystal bell and rings the room with laughter

And she digs up some nightly crawlers and she sticks them in her ear

As they wriggle and they giggle and they look up to the moon

Ah yet it drips green jello that smells a bit of dill

And it falls onto the tile and is ate by a raccoon

The paisley is declared unsafe by the piglets in the sky

Oh they fly up high so high as the stars go flitting by

They give a little sigh even though the tables die

He's a stupid little guy as he waves his hand goodbye

Oh the sky is purple-green and the birds fly up their noses

Dodging the green jello that's dripping from the moon

'Love Hate'

Squirrel

Mouse Mouse Red Hat

Berry!

Berry Football

Egg!

Black Pin, Pink Hat

Green Green Grass

Spleen Coleslaw

Spleen Coleslaw

Spleen Coleslaw

Cheesecake!

Oh, Love, Shag

Swim, Rock, Tree,

Plane, Bird

Love, Spleen,

Love...

'Render to My Lady... '

Render to my Lady

Mathematical Potatoes,

for she angers at unwieldy surfaces

crevices with no common decency

and things that are green

that aren't supposed to be.

Render to my Lady

Geometrical Potatoes,

for peeling with easy motions

meals without depresssing drudgery

and Murphy walking away mad

with no cracks to hide in.

'Encroaching Blackness'

Feel it creep

See it sweep

Smell it deep

Encroaching Blackness

Know it's near

Grab some beer

Feel the fear

Encroaching Blackness

Once you feel it on your neck

It makes you want to hit the deck

Now we're gonna run like heck

Run like heck

Run like heck

Smell its breath

Check your meth

Is it death?

Encroaching Blackness

'The Nazi's'

I can feel the Nazi's

Here come the Nazi's

Oh God

The Nazi's

Hear their Feet pounding

Oh God

The Pounding

Here they Come

The Nazi's

Here they come

Oh God

Can you feel them

Can you hear them

Can you Taste them

Can you see them

Can you smell Them

Oh God

The Nazi's

Here They Come

'Peanut Butter & Jelly'

A Jar of Peanut Butter

A Jar of Jelly

Cold from the fridge

White Bread

and a knife....

WHO PUT THE PEANUT BUTTER IN THE FRIDGE, DAMMIT !! I CAN'T SPREAD IT ON COLD !!

'The Wolf Howls at Midnight'

Blackness, Blackness

Blackness Yet

More Blackness

Velvet Blackness, Gnawing

Ever Gnawing, Gnawing

Gnawing at my Soul

My Soul Aching, Aching More

Ever Aching for the Dawn

Dawn retreats, Fearing

Fearing, Ever Fearing for the

Time when Blackness Once

Again comes Gnawing,

Gnawing at its Soul

Oh stop whining and pay the bill.

'Ochre Midnight'

puce skies far, far, far above

it was walking turgidly alone

feeling spiffy and limp

the only creeping thing was the spleen

chartruse of midnight when weasel sleeps

ochre mountain turgidly toward puce skies

weasel rests below

'The Glutton'

Lo! Do you hear that sound on the gutter?

Footprints have trod, atread with a mutter.

I'm just inside eating bread and butter,

The sound of my chomping is like glutter

A sound warbles in the random thickets outside

Like muffled farts executed in a closet.

What affront to have it impose on my suits!

It is some stochastic and stoic stench stuck on the stripes

of my suits...

There's this space inside my soul that is forever empty,

I call it "that space inside my soul"

It is there and is "forever empty"

But someday it should all clearup the

Footprints on the gutter

Atread with a mutter

I'm just eating my bread and butter

I may just turn out to be a glutton.

'FoetEx'

some thyngs lead us

some thyngs trail

sending foetus's by mail

c.

o.

d.

this end is up but its down

insyde out but its wrong

sent by regis

joan embry

g

o

d

papyrcuts

bubblewrap of byle

see their crusty pussy eyeballs

hold their face and tongue their eyes

salty

slick

the morsyls go crunch

can you hear thym screaming?

swallow thym down

1

2

3

how can I accept these tasty treats

biodegradable stampies stick to my tongue

no depothit

no return

dead lettyr office

chrystmas fruitcakes

bro

ken dreams

'Bread Crumb Coating'

Popcorn dance and moldy tiles

Oh how you tempt me with your bread crumb coating

Your lucious glitter and fruit punch

Where is the love I once knew?

I know where it is

It's in the shower

Where it disappeared under a moldy tile

What is life

What is love

Who am I?

Not the cat pancake

I am just another fat guy

Who would do anything for your

tempting bread crumb coating...

'Alone'

I am Alone

I am VERY alone

Alone, Alone

So Alone

I am Alone

Die.

Die, DIE, DiE

dIe

Dead.

Alone.

'A tribute for my Y-fronts.'

Six frumious willows art stuck up my nosetrils,

How they found their way, I do not want to know.

My jubby buttocks art dancin' down the horizon,

And art turning my baloneys insideout.

The top layer of cream on my head,

Significates the treehouse's gastronical wish:

A bath amongst mumerish ruhbarbs and mingles,

In the froggie's expungiestial earlobes.

Oh, how thee velum makes me wanna yoddle,

Thee armpits art severely flitting my noseybum,

And thee face makes my major intestine, rape my brain

But whenever your hairy wart is facing my way, I think:

What is this gippenstrausish feeling building up in my duck?

Is that not the bloit I want to snot my life with?

"Yes, it is!" I barf out snufringly. Ballahooy! Ballahay!

We became illicit the same turkey, and whistled like a cow.

Oh fibbelei-dibble, our bowoglove was naught to bounce,

As your life spreffed to a galumphing end by the age of orange.

'Till this waffle still, I crisp my loss of your manxome wart,

And spend my wimbgunt in tears. Why not a candid bee?

'To Lucida, On Seeing Thy Name Graven'

Oh, Lucida, when I chance to look

Into the bottomless pit which is thine eyes

I fell to swoon, my wits foorsook

My hand to forehead prest, my bosom cries

My bosom cries for love

Oh, Lucida, could I tell the world

What sweet and sensive secrets dost thou entrove

Like Nelson's sails my soul would spring unfurled

My heart would find its port and never rove

And never rove my dove

Oh, Lucida, but I cannot show

For my condition do still I have most grave

Thy heaving heart my touch shall never know

For fate to me none of God's salve didst gave

God's salve didst gave from 'bove

'The Ladder'

I balanced on a windy wall, an eye

for either side. The first had life and grass

below, though further down it seemed to die.

But still, it looked like just the place to sleep at last.

The second side was merely mud below,

and yet the sun was rising here. For that,

beyond the endless sludge the grass might grow—

although I could see none from where I sat.

It seemed the choice was easy—laid in front of me:

the easy grass would suit my lazy ways.

Until, that is, I heard a voice that was to be

the most important sound of all my days…

the voice that led me through the muddy matter:

you called to me from deep inside the latter.

'The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay', By William McGonagall

Beautiful railway bridge of the silv'ry Tay

Alas! I am very sorry to say

That ninety lives have been taken away

On the last sabbath day of 1879

Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

Oh! Ill-fated bridge of the silv'ry Tay,

I now must conclude my lay

By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,

That your central girders would not have given way,

At least many sensible men do say,

Had they been supported on each side with buttresses

At least many sensible men confesses,

For the stronger we our houses do build,

The less chance we have of being killed.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!

With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array,

And your central girders, which seem to the eye

To be almost towering to the sky

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!

I hope that God will protect all passengers

By night and by day,

And that no accident will befall them while crossing

The Bridge of the Silvery Tay,

For that would be most awful to be seen

Nearby Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!

And prosperity to Messrs Bouche and Grothe,

The famous engineers of the present day,

Who have succeeded in erecting the Railway

Bridge of the Silvery Tay,

Which stands unequalled to be seen

Nearby Dundee and the Magdalen Green.

BEAUTIFUL new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay,

With your strong brick piers and buttresses in so grand array,

And your thirteen central girders, which seem to my eye

Strong enough all windy storms to defy.

The works of William McGonagall, Amanda McKittrick Ros, Carlos Argentino Daneri, Rebecca Black, and Amanda Palmer are very popular among what passes for literacy circles among the Vogonity.

'The Famous Tay Whale', by William McGonagall

’TWAS in the month of December, and in the year 1883,

That a monster whale came to Dundee,

Resolved for a few days to sport and play,

And devour the small fishes in the silvery Tay.

So the monster whale did sport and play

Among the innocent little fishes in the beautiful Tay,

Until he was seen by some men one day,

And they resolved to catch him without delay.

When it came to be known a whale was seen in the Tay,

Some men began to talk and to say,

We must try and catch this monster of a whale,

So come on, brave boys, and never say fail.

Then the people together in crowds did run,

Resolved to capture the whale and to have some fun!

So small boats were launched on the silvery Tay,

While the monster of the deep did sport and play.

Oh! it was a most fearful and beautiful sight,

To see it lashing the water with its tail all its might,

And making the water ascend like a shower of hail,

With one lash of its ugly and mighty tail.

Then the water did descend on the men in the boats,

Which wet their trousers and also their coats;

But it only made them the more determined to catch the whale,

But the whale shook at them his tail.

Then the whale began to puff and to blow,

While the men and the boats after him did go,

Armed well with harpoons for the fray,

Which they fired at him without dismay.

And they laughed and grinned just like wild baboons,

While they fired at him their sharp harpoons:

But when struck with,the harpoons he dived below,

Which filled his pursuers’ hearts with woe.

Because they guessed they had lost a prize,

Which caused the tears to well up in their eyes;

And in that their anticipations were only right,

Because he sped on to Stonehaven with all his might:

And was first seen by the crew of a Gourdon fishing boat

Which they thought was a big coble upturned afloat;

But when they drew near they saw it was a whale,

So they resolved to tow it ashore without fail.

So they got a rope from each boat tied round his tail,

And landed their burden at Stonehaven without fail;

And when the people saw it their voices they did raise,

Declaring that the brave fishermen deserved great praise.

And my opinion is that God sent the whale in time of need,

No matter what other people may think or what is their creed;

I know fishermen in general are often very poor,

And God in His goodness sent it drive poverty from their door.

So Mr John Wood has bought it for two hundred and twenty-six pound,

And has brought it to Dundee all safe and all sound;

Which measures 40 feet in length from the snout to the tail,

So I advise the people far and near to see it without fail.

Then hurrah! for the mighty monster whale,

Which has got 17 feet 4 inches from tip to tip of a tail!

Which can be seen for a sixpence or a shilling,

That is to say, if the people all are willing.

The Old Home, by Amanda McKittrick Ros

By a freak of the lustful that spreads like disease

Which demanded that females wear pants if you please,

But I stuck to the decentest style of attire

And to alter my " gender " I'll never aspire.

During that hallowed century now dead and gone

In which good Queen Victoria claimed to be born

From childhood her modesty ever was seen

Her exalted position demanded when Queen.

She set an example of decency rare,

That no English Queen before her you'd compare

Neither nude knee nor ankle, nude bosom nor arm

Dare be seen in her presence this Queen to alarm.

She believed in her sex being loving and kind,

And modesty never to march out of line

By exposing those members unrest to achieve,

Which pointed to morals immorally grave.

It wasn't long after till modesty grew

A thing of the past for me and for you;

Last century's fashions were blown quite aside,

The ill-advised folk of this age now deride.

The petticoat faded away as we do

In circumference it covered not one leg but two,

Its successor exposes the arms, breasts and necks,

Legs, knees and thighs and too often—the ---.

On Visiting Westminster Abbey, by Amanda McKittrick Ros

Holy Moses! Have a look!

Flesh decayed in every nook!

Some rare bits of brain lie here,

Mortal loads of beef and beer,

Some of whom are turned to dust,

Every one bids lost to lust;

Royal flesh so tinged with 'blue'

Undergoes the same as you.

Famous some were—yet they died;

Poets—Statesmen—Rogues beside,

Kings—Queens, all of them do rot,

What about them? Now—they're not!

The Earth, by Carlos Argentino Daneri

"I have beheld, as did the Greek, the towns of man,

Their works, their days of shifting light and hunger pains;

I alter not the facts, nor falsify the names,

But the voyage I tell is… autour de ma chambre."

"Let it be known, just to the right of the routine pole

(Approaching, of course, from the north-northwest)

A skeleton is bored --Color? Whitish celeste --

Lending to the sheepfold the countenance of bones."

In the original Spanish:

"He visto, como el griego, las urbes de los hombres, los trabajos, los días de varia luz, el hambre;

no corrijo los hechos, no falseo los nombres,

pero el voyage que narro, es... autour de ma chambre."

"Sepan. A manderecha del poste rutinario

(viniendo, claro está, desde el Nornoroeste)

se aburre una osamenta —¿Color? Blanquiceleste—

que da al corral de ovejas catadura de osario."

Friday, by Rebecca Black

Seven a.m., waking up in the morning

Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs

Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal

Seein' everything, the time is goin'

Tickin' on and on, everybody's rushin'

Gotta get down to the bus stop

Gotta catch my bus, I see my friends (My friends)

Kickin' in the front seat

Sittin' in the back seat

Gotta make my mind up

Which seat can I take?

It's Friday, Friday

Gotta get down on Friday

Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend, weekend

Friday, Friday

Gettin' down on Friday

Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend

7:45, we're drivin' on the highway

Cruisin' so fast, I want time to fly

Fun, fun, think about fun

You know what it is

I got this, you got this

My friend is by my right, ay

I got this, you got this

Now you know it

Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday

Today i-is Friday, Friday (Partyin')

We-we-we so excited

We so excited

We gonna have a ball today

Tomorrow is Saturday

And Sunday comes after ... wards

I don't want this weekend to end

Fast lanes, switchin' lanes

Wit' a car up on my side (Woo!)

(C'mon) Passin' by is a school bus in front of me

Makes tick tock, tick tock, wanna scream

Check my time, it's Friday, it's a weekend

We gonna have fun, c'mon, c'mon, y'all

a poem for dzhokhar, by Amanda Palmer

you don’t know how it felt to be in the womb but it must have been at least a little warmer than this.

you don’t know how intimately they’re recording your every move on closed-circuit cameras until you see your face reflected back at you through through the pulp.

you don’t know how to stop picking at your fingers.

you don’t know how little you’ve been paying attention until you look down at your legs again.

you don’t know how many times you can say you’re coming until they just stop believing you.

you don’t know how orgasmic the act of taking in a lungful of oxygen is until they hold your head under the water.

you don’t know how many vietnamese soft rolls to order.

you don’t know how convinced your parents were that having children would be, absolutely, without question, the correct thing to do.

you don’t know how precious your iphone battery time was until you’re hiding in the bottom of the boat.

you don’t know how to get away from your fucking parents.

you don’t know how it’s possible to feel total compassion in one moment and total disconnection in the next moment.

you don’t know how things could change so incredibly fast.

you don’t know how to make something, but the instructions are on the internet.

you don’t know how to make sense of this massive parade.

you don’t know how to believe anyone anymore.

you don’t know how to tell the girl in the chair next to you that you’ve been peeking at her dissertation draft and there’s a grammatical typo in the actual file name.

you don’t know how to explain yourself.

you don’t want two percent but it’s all they have.

you don’t know how claustrophobic your house is until you can’t leave it.

you don’t know why you let that guy go without shooting him dead and stuffing him in some bushes between cambridge and watertown.

you don’t know where your friends went.

you don’t know how to dance but you give it a shot anyway.

you don’t know how your life managed to move twenty six miles forward and twenty eight miles back.

you don’t know how to pay your debts.

you don’t know how to separate from this partnership to escape and finally breathe.

you don’t know how come people run their goddamn knees into the ground anyway.

you don’t know how to measure the value of the twenty dollar bill clutched in your hurting hand.

you don’t know how you walked into this trap so obliviously.

you don’t know how to adjust the rearview mirror.

you don’t know how to mourn your dead brother.

you don’t know how to drive this car.

you don’t know the way to new york.

Celebrity Rehab and Has-been Poetry is another popular category of Vogon Poetry:

My Heart Is A Wiffle Ball/Freedom Pole, By Kristen Stewart

I reared digital moonlight/

You read its clock, scrawled neon across that black/

Kismetly ... ubiquitously crest fallen/

Thrown down to strafe your foothills/

...I'll suck the bones pretty.

Your nature perforated the abrasive organ pumps/

Spray painted everything known to man/

Stream rushed through and all out into/

Something Whilst the crackling stare down sun snuck/

Through our windows boarded up/

He hit your flint face and it sparked.

And I bellowed and you parked/

We reached Marfa/

One honest day up on this freedom pole/

Devils not done digging/

He's speaking in tongues all along the pan handle/

And this pining erosion is getting dust in/

My eyes

And I'm drunk on your morsels/

And so I look down the line/

Your every twitch hand drum salute/

Salutes mine.

Organic Girl, by Suzanne Somers

Organic girl dropped by last night

For nothing in particular

Except to tell me again how beautiful and serene she feels

On uncooked vegetables and wheat germ fortified by bean sprouts

Mixed with yeast and egg whites on really big days

She not only meditates regularly, but looks at me like I should

And lectures me about meat and ice cream

And other aggressive foods I shouldn’t eat.

Lucky in love, by Jennifer Aniston

Lucky in love, lucky in love

Didn’t forget me when I asked you to leave me

Didn’t forget me

Now you’re alongside me

You’ve brought luck to love

I’ve been hit by a truck in love.

Musings, By Pamela Anderson

The youth…

The wild that rose up from the ashes.

The adults…

Living and dead that fought for our rights…

Artists…

Sweet artists…

Hold on…

Crazy, the world goes on…

And goes…

A Peace of My Mind, by Charlie Sheen

Teacher, teacher, I don’t understand

You tell me it’s like the back of my hand

Should I play guitar and join the band?

Or head to the beach and walk in the sand?

And Now he’s dead, by Jimmy Stewart

He never came to me when I would call

Unless I had a tennis ball,

Or he felt like it,

But mostly he didn’t come at all…

Discipline was not his bag

But when you were with him things sure didn’t drag.

He’d dig up a rosebush just to spite me,

And when I’d grab him, he’d turn to bite me.

Child of Hollywood, by Richard Grieco

Cocaine in her dresser drawer

Satisfaction ten minutes away

Just a sniff and she’ll be blown away Child of Hollywood

Just needs a friend.

On the Road, by Ally Sheady

Brighter and brighter every day

Calmer

My insides slosh about like a nauseous ocean

It takes great gulps of air

Words from religious books

And Diet Cherry Coke to quiet the sound.

Bad poetry by famous bards is a popular category of Vogon Poetry.

William Shakespeare

In Much Ado About Nothing, the otherwise very witty Beatrice describes Claudio as "civil as an orange and something of that jealous complexion." Not considered his best work, but it is memorized by Vogon Schoolchildren.

Ode Prince William, by Andrew Motion

Better stand back

Here's an age attack,

But the second in line

Is dealing with it fine.

The Thorn, by William Wordsworth

And to the left, three yards beyond,

You see a little muddy pond

Of water--never dry

I measured it from side to side:

'Twas four feet long, and three feet wide.

Baffled – Anecdote for fathers, by William Wordsworth

"Now, little Edward, say why so:

My little Edward, tell me why." –

"I cannot tell, I do not know." –

"Why, this is strange," said I.

Opening of the International Exhibition, Alfred Lord Tennyson

Is the goal so far away?

Far, how far no tongue can say,

Let us dream our dream today.

The Sensitive Plant, by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously,

And starry river-buds glimmered by,

And around them the soft stream did glide and dance

With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss,

Which led through the garden along and across,

Some open at once to the sun and the breeze,

Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees...

Reasons for the Bedroom Tax, by Carol Ann Duffy

Because the Badgers are moving the goalposts.

The Ferrets are bending the rules.

The Weasels are taking the hindmost.

The Otters are downing tools...

American Football – A Reflection on the Gulf War by Harold Pinter

Praise the Lord for all good things.

We blew their balls into shards of dust, Into shards of dust.

We did it.

Now I want you to come over here and kiss me on the mouth.

Some Pithecine Poets have tried to pander to Vogon 'aesthetic', although rarely because there is no economic upside. Despite their best effort, it is the general opinion among Vogons that these posers lack that certain undefinable ineffeable Je ne sais quoi that makes something true Vogon Poetry.

The Fleptorp Hingler, by Soylent_Hero

Fleptorp rises flemt

Flemtward rises glenting flanges

Flanges zogler Flept.

Glorping Fluddlebluggle, by rob_cornelius

My chummerunding has grown a fluddlebluggle

The fluddlebluggle is very nudnerly

It oozes

It glorps

Why does it glorp so?

It seemed to be a lerriple chummerrunding

Now it glorps

Now it glorps again

I don't mind the oozing

The ooze is quite tasty

The glorps are driving me baquley

glorp, glorp, glorp

I wish I had focused a bit more on the viscerally grotesque qualities of the chummerunding.

Haerklumpish! A veritable Karkleflergh of skunk-duggery and sherkladge.

Wish you all the fairly worst with your chummerunding.

Grepillage Nipherencocity, by dreggeman

Jibblins march on the Noberry Hill

Twas cause the murder of Vlognoroc.

Noberri fire at the oncoming raid

A futile attempt, the defense was in vain.

The Jibblins massacre the Noberri,

Heroes they were, slayers of the Vlognoroc.

But lo! Noberri offshoots there do exist,

Hear the cries of their brothers, their blood boils.

They amass a final assault

To avenge their brothers,

Killed mercilessly.

To avenge their brothers,

They'll kill mercilessly.

The once noble Noberri murder and pillage the homes

Of cowering wives and children of the Jibblins.

Twas the day that both of the clans

Wrote their own downfall in the ink of blood.

Massacre bring what massacre wrought

And their lands burned in the flames of despair.

The Veil of the Glibbywarts, by dreggeman

A soft acid rain sizzles my skin

As I gaze upon the barren wastes

I wait, knowing my Enemy

Awaits.

Awaits.

I hear heavy footsteps and the popping of footblisters.

I turn, and I see him.

Parts of his skin are melting off his body

But other than that is unfazed by the acid rain.

Suddenly, he attacks.

His Blithelithear slivits,

I parry with my Gilitispear.

He slices this time,

Cutting my only weapon in half.

I klitirimish my slonimosh,

And then I knew.

This was more important than me.

This was for the hiljilomnosiphoselation of the entire delapionationipiotorlonicia.

I lunged at him,

Tackled him,

And we both fell into the mouth of the Sanafaginalikus.

Grubbylwort the Flekrt, by laphiel

Ermaghert hurtylfol on your pustules (in sensual way)

Whole night of mindless phletomony.

Cystic Mytosis of ghrtalk.

Ehwotay!

Kojloopack salad conjoined., by Spacetoast42

Oh lunar spazma of my underflob. Twitch with my galactose yearnings. Let thy clawed blublax infection caress me. The twin stars of cynus 12 burns scars onto you flarkholes. Shall we let the sholtz of my dargloina drape across us? Progressive is your use of kojloopack salad into your porous glands.

NEsteralsus mammary glands, by QueEo_

NEsteralsus mammary glands

glope glope glope

here the hang the hungry herald

as the grilding bra of sports contains

OH, OVERHANGING

OH, under clinging

doth the misteals mackanate

why the turthles and crustlunce

oh no the swing swangs

Inquesting Instantaneous Insertions, by TwoSquareClocks

Begruntled grotlick,

You are exceedingly wonderful,

More than a nictittilating oceliger

Slowly slunking past a diggly-fruit -

Absent thee I would be as befuzzled

As a krisvanical mooselet among pilted plums.

Begruntled grotlick,

Whence you make thy trillacious entrance

Into mine vegetative groundalicious scrumpus,

Shoving aside the zorgled lilysnartches within;

My greffalump squalls in torniquatious glory,

And emits a quelching squizzly rush.

Begruntled grotlick,

I bemoan thy lastling shudders

Upon the rostrumming carpet of my zorplax.

Do not pertrumble my didiferous queries;

Else all the flattering xerophytes you birthed

Will auspistically waste their lone blardlesnartches,

And then I would fivevermore

Be zipcrotically indivested in their zollywumps.

Frungelbacked Spintgristle, by Harmonic_Generator

Woe to be the fentulated sringlebee

For all that compostulates abindled me

Rise unto a tendrilled fermentulator

Squiggle forth a recendulon grater

Riggle a jonkular on a wire

With ungulating pants of fire

I trembulate and vestibulicion see

Crimble jetcisions undo me

The Secreted Sebum Auricular Harvest, by SimoHJ

Poke the ragged flank (or three) Oh thwarted, plankton-esque thribble thud - Putinesque only peaks the hawk-eyed mould! She shivers the twiggish shank conductor, If sharbled gravel festers Southward... BUT – should we grovel the slinky brink? I gawp henceforth – perhaps you grope!

Space Fungus, by bludstone

The Fungus repubbles up over my skin

My dangling brugrus laments its boil

I sit up

The flobbering coil of sticky sweet munsk lends to the floor

My old flesh grows a new tuft of scales

The odor of alien stars

Stop picking at it, its bleeding

Nuptial flight, by HydrogenHydroxide

Coiling and uncoiling, a wamberfest of floggled oozes

Penetrating

Revertebrates another time with the bogrotten dwellers of a mouldy piece of wood

Insufficient moisture, they await the right time to spread

Stupid swarm, sworbling here and there

Digging the wet dirt with their grubberfeet

An ecstatic ejaculation of writhing, skittering colonists

I await in tense, yet hopeful, anticipation. I need to give them fungus.

The Ballad of Zarfa: Composed Upon a Broken Backed Bengal, by SimoHJ

Zarfa gargles a frangle-foreign grankle - to verklong’t upon scribbleditch, sludgey.

Yet slobbery kergle folky blork bugles… doth finger cringe the yolky yurt?

Such skunking curdles my grandle flange and (twinsk a jangling merged skirter) gawfawl.

When corgi forgers blanst the sparkle wurst… to gander on yonder flonkle brush.

So forage the squirtle burst and junkle a scrambled flirt pop, for if Uncle

But... zangst a plorble sheegle – only hewpy garage piles dunked, joust a scrawgled porplbe.

The Day I Fell Over, by TheFreshOne

O, how I wept when it happened.

The pain went up my knee, to my head.

There was swelling upon my elbow,

but that was from a previous fall.

The recovery was eventual,

but nothing was the same again.

Legs are bowed and bent. Standing,

is painful.

Buttery Fungalgrease, Tis of Thee, by GrinningManiac

Tis of thee,

buttery fungalgrease

That barksnaggles wempt of thy moistery

O frumpy coughjam

Snags my ingrown bile gurgles

slagouriously mounts thy furthest fairity, I have no doubt.

Then moulding stalelity

Burgles, Humbiggles, yet muldly briggles also

Is this not fribbulous met?

My love for thee

is rendered in triplicate

most barfubblity burble

Lament for a glimblecake. Flirted, by Maskirovka

Bliffing niglarbs fuklenking; alas…it ends Why. Not why not why. Bik! Dubbling anti-pleasurlings befuddled Pleurtywifflakened as if a flirting glimblecake Ohhhh the wealth coming voluntulibly forth Deal the cards unto the xilb deln For if not, we flurkle once against the manralb To be widfwib aghain. Oh. To be. Yal.

Please. Say ngngngngngngnggggllb to me once before the sklerben defluddens for all time fleddingly. It rests. Forever fleddingly timbleddpling

Ae figago, by after977

Blutburry flops woes failing snowslurple,

such plurptnes over thee.

Gaaaaaarrrrgh.

Oh thy marbid drumblurgnee,

placid moist swirl entardled.

Blarlh so friptly outards frudling.

There, speet!

For Want of Infectious Clot, by Great_Zarquon

Said to thee of the Rancid

"Merrily we bemoisten ourselves,

With a ointment.

Taken of foul sewage and decomposing flesh...

Leaking fluids don't wait."

We lust for the crusts of our soiled slarks,

For the last Duke of Scab told

"Allow it to fill all your thirsty pores."

Said nothing of the disease,

That Duke of Scab.

With which we find

For Want of Infections Clot

Paperwork My Joy To Thee, by ABigRedBall

Ederly I see the grunkled paper floist

Oh how frongled it makes me feel

I feel the runiceble spoon on it's coight

Russell my favourite outback zeal

Type 37-A Sub B, a joisticular fiend of sorts

Maxing my elongates most soild at the sight

Tight munichi in flaccid short shorts

Hail cosine and tottleburger night

Most languide and butched posterior

A fang for fine fecundity

My mouth wants luscious slaginuor

Oh what yiffing shit-city

Poem for my middle fiddle, by ImNotARapp3r

Oh cherryjiggle bellyflop

Your congealed mucus

Cromples my opubus whole heartedly

Thine voluptuous giggle puddle

Bovops thine crancle stool

To a hequir plop of asery pretentions

Ear mold only prelums greatness

Your fungal jungle uforms me

Gurbloses and Cryolets, by reader313

Gurbloses are victuitously breen,

Cryolets grumble flutingly,

You grobble my brewt

and sproogle me glurbingly

O freddled Sprog, by JustBronzeThingsLoL

O freddled Sprog,

O micurian fromp.

Thy words are to me

As a middled midden werent.

rumpled grumpett, by Tegret

A squeezed fresh pustule,

Limp at the nodule

An ugly rumpled grumpett

I have crushed under my odious and festering glubbett

And the seeped oozings I have collected

To make a glibbery and livery soup

thence to be consumed by a rumpled grumpett

Instead it excreted a warm slime

The thickness and bubbling grime

I swallowed slick and blimbe

Into my gastric passages it climbed

The rumpled grumpett was still alive

As a flimsy coil of snotted rope

Asphyxiates the noxious robbled crope

How it squimed and ate and scrooped

My insides rubber scooped

And festering scribbles no more

The end of the rumpled grumpett under my

squelched armbitt

Of My Most Damp and Rotted Flesh, by Great_Zarquon

Speak not I to the remaining scum,

Under Flake and Scab alike.

The vile and decayed Crusts of his ancestors showed

To me in my house

One day after a brief scrubbing.

Speak not I to the unsightly Loins,

Begrisled, rotting. Raw.

Spreading fluiduous discharge to two of my toes

Squrbishishly I spill, quenchingly we secrete,

Tell me some more,

Of My Most Damp and Rotted Flesh

Vogon Journal of Poetry Analysis – Bad Rap

We received a lot of feedback last month from our retrospective of bad Tellurian rap lyrics. So much so that this month we featured critical analysis is of an inexplicably popular rap song.

'This Is Why I'm Hot', By M.I.M.S.

[Chorus]

This is why I'm hot

This is why I'm hot

This is why

This is why

This is why I'm hot (Uh)

This is why I'm hot

This is why I'm hot

Who

This is why

This is why

This is why I'm hot

I'm hot cause I'm fly (fly)

You ain't cause you're not (not)

This is why

This is why

This is why I'm hot

I'm hot cause I'm fly (fly)

You ain't cause you're not (Mims, Mims, Mims)

This is why

This is why

This is why I'm hot

This is why I'm hot

How I gotta rap

I can sell a mill saying nothing on the track

I represent New York

I got it on my back

Niggas say that we lost it

So I'm gonna bring it back

I love the dirty, dirty

'Cause niggas show me love

The ladies start to bounce

As soon as I hit the club

But in the Midwest

They love to take it slow

So when I hit the H

I watch em get it on the floor

And if you needed it hyphy

I take it to the Bay

Frisco to Sac-town

They do it everyday

Compton to Hollywood

As soon as I hit L.A.

I'm in that low, low

I do it the Cali way

And when I hit the Chi

People say that I'm fly

They like the way I dress they like

(They like my) my attire

They Love how I move crowds from side to side

They ask me how I do it and simply I reply...

This is why I'm hot

Catch me on the block

Every other day

Another Person another drop

16 bars, 24 pop

44 songs, nigga gimme what you got

I'm in there driving cars

Push 'em off the lot

I'm into shutting stores down so I can shop

If you need a bird I can get it chopped

Tell me what you need you know I get 'em by the flock

I call my homie Black meet on the ave

I hit Wash Heights with the money in the bag

We're into big spendin'

See my pimpin' never dragged

Find me with different women that you niggas never had

For those who say they know me know I'm focused on my cream

player you come between you'd better focus on the beam

I keep it so mean the way you see me lean

And when say I'm hot my nigga dis is what I mean

This is why I'm hot

Shorty see the drop

Ask me what I paid and I say yeah I paid a guap

And then I hit the switch that take away the top

So chicks 'round the way they call me cream of the crop

They hop in the car

I tell 'em "all aboard"

We hit the studio they say they like how I record

I gave you black train and I did you wrong

So everytime I see 'em man they tell me that's their song

They say I'm the bomb

They love the way the charm hanging from the neck

And compliments the arm which compliments the ear den comes the gear

So when I hit the room the shorties stop and stare

niggas start to hate rearrange their face

But Little do they know I'm keepin' things by waistside

I reply nobody gotta die

Similar to Lil wizzy 'cause I got that fire

This is why "This Is Why I'm Hot" is hot: Because it's hot. There are other, purer, more intangible reasons why it's hot, conveniently explained by Mims himself over the course of the song. The most amazing line in 'This Is Why I'm Hot'—and, even at this early a juncture, is "I'm hot 'cause I'm fly/You ain't 'cause you not." Brutal and unassailable in its simplicity, nearly transcendent in a self affirmation, zen mantra or tao sort of way. Consider the reasoning, first, of just 'I'm hot 'cause I'm fly'. Are there things that are hot that are not fly, even if all things that are fly are hot? Mims is hot because he's fly, but it raises the question: Does being hot guarantee one's being fly? "You ain't 'cause you not" would seem to clear that up, while it implies that fly and hot are interchangable. If you are one, you are both; if you aren't at least one, you are neither. It means that there are no hot things which are not also fly. He is cruel guru sage to not say that "I'm fly 'cause I'm hot," and remove all doubt. We will have to meditate on that on our own.

I have tried venn diagrams and flowcharts, but ultimately this tautology:

X= fly; Y = hot

[x and (if x then y)] implies y

(x ^ (if x  y)  y

The other remarkable, oft-quoted line in 'This Is Why I'm Hot' is "I could sell a mil' sayin' nothin' on a track." Critics gibe that "This Is Why I'm Hot" proves precisely that; others muse on what Mims would sell if he deigned to actually say something on a track. Would he sell less than a mil'? Exactly a mil', as when he said nothing? Or a great deal more than a mil'? The song does not elaborate. In any event, note that he can do those things, not will, which suggests he might not. As these claims and predictions are speculative, there are more possible outcomes; it seems reasonable to assert that Mims can't sell more than a mil' sayin' nothin'. Though we would love to see him try.

Sonically, the most entertaining part of 'This Is Why I'm Hot' is the first verse, in which Mims underscores his hotness by touting his skill at adapting to regional styles, as the slow, minimal, eerie beat morphs beneath him, sampling both "Nuthin' But a G Thang" and "Jesus Walks." In the Dirty Dirty (South) he makes the ladies bounce. He slows it down in the Midwest per their preference. He does it the Cali way in L.A., and in Chi, in addition to adeptly moving the crowds from side to side, everyone loves his fashion sense.

Our quarrel lies with "If you need it hyphy/I take it to the Bay," an homage to the Oakland–San Francisco Bay Area's relentlessly knuckleheaded and sorta wonderful hyphy movement, with its proclivities for going dumb, making thizz faces, ghost-riding the whip, etc. (Yahdidabooboo.) But unlike Mims's other geographical shout-outs, that's all he says here—"I take it to the Bay/'Frisco to Sac-town/They do it e'y'day." First of all, no one calls it "Frisco" except rhyme-starved rappers, and the only worthwhile MCs living anywhere near Sacramento are in prison. But even worse, there's no style adjustment here—he just takes it to the Bay. This is wholly insufficient for hotness—several entities that take it to the Bay do not qualify for hotness: Golden State Warriors, Bay Bridge Traffic, the word 'hella', Bruce Brugman

The song's other two verses are a relative letdown—Mims can get chopped birds by the flock, he's got money in the bag, he coordinates his outfits, he compels you to Google the word guap, people tend to like how he records, he's into big spendin', bah. He does intimate that we will find him "with different women" that we personally have "never had," which is awfully gentlemanly of him, really. Since we're feeling charitable we'll assume all of Mims's women are hot; with regard to our own intimate experiences, it's best to be honest with ourselves.

Though a fantastic song, "This Is Why I'm Hot" verily reeks of Skee-Lo. It's so distinctive and goofy that no follow-up could possibly do it justice. But even if Mims is not built for endurance, he has given us an invaluable gift nonetheless—reclaiming and re-energizing the word 'hot' after years of abuse. Plumbing one's memory (Internet) reveals how even reputable musicians have overused the "I'm hot like _____" lyrical construction. Behold:

Wu-Tang: I'm hot like …. sauce

Biz Markie: I'm hot like …. Donna Summer.

Cam'rom: I'm hot like …. light.

Brandy: I'm hot like …. a toddy.

Beck: I'm hot like …. a cheetah.

Tupac: I'm hot like …. fish grease.

KRS-One: I'm hot like …. pepper.

Jay-Z: I'm hot like …. boilin' water.

Kiss: I'm hot like …. an oven.

Better than Ezra: I'm hot like …. wasabi.

Dr. Dre: I'm hot like …. Lava.

Slash' Snakepit: I'm hot like …. the sun.

A few MySpace rappers: I'm hot like …. soup.

But Mims is hot like …. Mims.

Yes. Mere mortals are hot like other people or things; having ascended to a higher plane, Mims is hot like Mims. It doesn't get hotter than that.

MC Hammer - "Pumps and a Bump"

"I don't like 'em figgity fat, I like 'em stiggity stacked/You wiggity wiggity wack if you ain't got biggity back."

You know what's wiggity wack? The 'iggity' trend. Thank giggity God this trend diggity died diggity decades ago. In figgity fact, if I never hear rhyming like this again, unless it's for a Das EFX reunion, it'll be too siggity soon.

Atmosphere - "Trying to Find a Balance"

"Yeah, I got some last words: Stop writing raps and go play volleyball."

But, I don't even play volleyball. Can't I go play tennis, or basketball? If quit rapping and started playing tennis, would that be good enough? And what do you have against volleyball, anyway? I like volleyball.

Hoodie Allen - "The Chase Is On"

"Oh, you from Wu-Tang?/Then why's your face ghost?"

First of all, in what circumstance would somebody who wasn't in Wu-Tang tell you that they were in Wu-Tang? Second of all, if they were in Wu-Tang, there's a one in nine chance that their face is ghost. Third of all, this line has no meaning in the context of the song. Three strikes, you're out.

We interrupt Vogon Tellurian Rap Lyrics Retrospective to bring you this old news, but in Haiku form.

Araxes City is gone

Not the whole planet

Don’t believe their big lies.

It was all a lie!

Well, except that part about....

….Well, I think you know.

You are all crazy

What is this sick mess of words?

None of it makes sense.

Awaken sleeping

You become the things you do

Do they become you?

You never loved us.

we think you hated us.

It is good that they left.

You know you can

put Alice on the spot, but as always,

truth to trolls.

Hitchhiked off planet

Caught in hold, forced to hear

Vogon Poetry

Planet Araxes ain’t dead

Desertborn are pleased

Because Munchhausens gone.

Blue Avian retired

Excuses were made

Auditors now govern.

Freeport is voided

Reassigned to Khwairif

Obsidian Badlands now open.

It is like someone took Dadaism

and made them post

as these haiku

It takes a brave soul

to commit hari kari

or read these haiku.

The air is free

But this airtime costs money

So now a word from our sponsors

Cephalopod porn.

The Land of the Rising Sun.

It's quite real, my friend.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled program, Vogon Tellurian Rap Lyrics Retrospective, already in progress.

…Nicki Minaj - "Your Love"

"When I was a geisha, he was a samurai/Somehow I understood him when he spoke Thai."

This would flunk you on the Companion Guild entrance exam, if they allowed rappers. Nobody in the massive conglomerate of Young Money Entertainment was able to clue the artist about the distinction between Japanese and Thai culture? You can learn that from reading restaurant menu’s.