[Mary Meriam]

WOW! These are the best Speccie entries EVER. Thanks for the LOLs, guys.

[Lance Levens]

John

"Camel's lard?" Ouch!

[FOsen]

How do I hate you, let me count the ways—
was “love thee” once, but that’s a shopworn phrase.
Whether our age inclines to love or hate
is, sadly, always open to debate
but there’s no doubt—at least not since vers libre—
that thee is rarer than a checkered zebra.
Today’s most dated poet knows one must
commit one's hast to ashes, dost to dust;
alack, alas, and O, shalt, goeth, thence,
apace with whither, wherefore, whence, and hence.
I never liked thee, thou, or thy, or ye;
In your case, I'd say, cross out I and me.
It seems there’s no one pronoun that will do
for, come to that, I’m not too fond of you.

Frank

[John Whitworth]

Neat, Frank. I'd like my own contribution better with thee and thou.

[Roger Slater]

I knew that hate would inspire us all. Nice poems.

My last one is my entry, but I'll post this one just to be offensive:



How do I hate you? Let me count the ways.
If Adolf Hitler showed up at my door
I'd dress him down, but it would sound like praise
Compared to what I'd say to you. What's more,

Imagine then Bin Laden happened by.
I hate the man. I'm overjoyed he's dead.
And yet I could not help but wonder why
God's mercy did not murder you instead.

And then let's say that Death itself dropped in,
Complete with scythe and spooky robe and hood.
If Death's a yang, I'd understand the yin:
Compared to you, I'd see that Death was good.

[John Whitworth]

Nice, Roger. Adolf though.

[Roger Slater]

HOW DO I HATE YOU?

How do I hate you? Let me count the ways.
I hate you with the anger people feel
who realize they have wasted all their days
pursuing dreams that never could be real.
I hate you with the vitriol and scorn
the devil felt for God so long ago
the day he fell and Hell itself was born.
I hate you more than you will ever know,
unless someday you meet a schmuck like you
who treats you like a schmuck like me, and then
you learn what I am telling you is true.
Until you're dead, I won't know peace again.
And even then, my arse will feel the burr
of hatred just recalling that you were.

[George Simmers]

John's already produced the winner, so I thought I'd just play a rhyming game:

How do I hate you? Let me count the ways.
On Monday, most dispiriting of days,
I’ll cheer myself by whispering harsh dispraise
Of you and yours. Next day I’ll hone a phrase
Whose every cruel syllable will faze
Your mind, disorient and craze.
On Wednesday, I’ll infect you with malaise,
And Thursday’s when my gibes will so amaze
Your slow, dull wits, you’ll stagger in a daze
And learn there is no comfort that allays
So huge a hurt. On Friday I’ll erase
Your credit rating – then no more soft plays!
On Saturday with quiet glee I’ll raise
My boot to kick you, vicious as the Krays,
Till Sunday, when I’ll be at church, to praise
The God who’ll fry and burn you. How you’ll blaze!

[Roger Slater]

How do I hate you? Let me count the ways.
I hate you more than pacifists hate fights.
I hate you more than fish hate fish filets.
I hate you more than Sunnis hate Shiites.

I hate you always, and not merely often.
I wish the CIA would waterboard you.
I dream about you rotting in your coffin,
delighting those like me who long abhorred you.

The thought of you can make me punch a hole in
the wall or shout an expletive out loud.
If someday I can boast I played a role in
your death, I'll hold my head up and be proud.

[Spindleshanks]

I won't subject myself to the pain of rejection by entering this against the formidable array of talent the challenge has inspired, but I had to join in the fun. It's an old one resurrected and revised for the occasion:

TO MY CAUSTIC COLLEAGUES

How do I hate you? Let me count the ways:
I hate the way you muster with such ease
a rancid pot pourri of picturesque
vituperations; loathe the way you breeze
through versifying, mordant to burlesque;
I shake with indignation as you whisk
a casual opus from malignities.
While I sit drumming fingers on my desk,
you fashion gold from straw contumelies.

I hope one day to hear the frantic knock
of opportunity before my clock
runs down; I hope to greet a fawning flock
of publishers; I hope my ship will dock.

And, friends, I hope your syntax runs amok;
your metre melts; you choke on writer’s block,
and Lucy splits the pot a thousand ways.


oOOo