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The Mostly Harmless Alliance Vogon Poetry Contest


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Vogon poetry is the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem "Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning" four of his audience members died of internal hemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. The very worst poetry in the universe was written by Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Sussex. Thankfully it was destroyed when the earth was.

Due to the success, and yet, apparrent failure of sharing Vogon poetry with the rest of the universe, the Mostly Harmless Alliance announces a contest to determine planet Bob's best Vogon Poetry writer.

First prize takes home 150 tech, Second 100, and Third 50. Any winning nation who is currently embroiled in conflict may have their prize tabled at the nearest intergalactic bank until otherwise. Please submit your poetry in this thread, and be creative

:D. The judging will take place by the triumvirate of The Mostly Harmless Alliance one week from Friday June 19th.

So, planet Bob, we challenge you to quite frankly, do your worst.

Samples of Vogon Poetry from Towel Day 09' Celebration:

AlfredvonTirpitz of Ragnarok:

See, see the Battleaxe sky

Marvel at its big Pink depths.

Tell me, Crushtania do you

Wonder why the Chiuhuahua ignores you?

Why its foobly stare

makes you feel Angry.

I can tell you, it is

Worried by your KickableButt facial growth

That looks like,

A Mutton.

What's more, it knows

Your Fark potting shed

Smells of Zit.

Everything under the big Battleaxe sky

Asks why, why do you even bother?

You only charm Stale Beers.

Gunther of MHA:

Fear not the Lokogtichy, Belternob,

The time is right for Scriffing,

If not Scriffing what say you, Rob?

Let's not fiddle faddle over hitching.

Making grobblegook can make you stink,

But eating turtuschek will make you sick,

Remain where you are and you will be fine,

Today is a day for cheese and wine.

Some say science cures all ills,

I say drink more Nabelpie,

Or lay awake and take more pills,

For today was not the day to die

Former triumvirate of the MHA and current resident of OBR, Floyd:

Itching for Love

Side by side we sit, I am lewdly lusting for love,

My desires grow like an itchy passion on my groin.

Gold Bond powder cannot cure, Vagicil cannot cure me.

Melkson of MHA:

I sat on my chair bored stiff,

Then my cat came and gave me a sniff,

I looked at him funny, he looked back at me,

Then my face, lit up with glee,

I picked up my cat and stroked his fur,

He stretched his legs and began to pur,

I then opened by mouth and swallowed him whole,

My boredom is gone, and my cat is no more.

I've calculated your chance of survival reading the poetry in this contest, but I don't think you'll like it.

Edited by IYIyTh
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Vogon poetry? ARe you guys insane?

We're not insane...well...Mostly.

and yes, haiku are technically admissable, but will probably actually be better and thus fare worse in terms of voting.

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Friendship is like peeing on yourself,

only you feel the warm sensation,

an enemy's mouth is the destination;

to seek their desecration.

To a man's woman, she is like a book,

you pick it cause of the cover and how its cover looks.

You only decide to keep her if she knows how to cook,

but if she can't, you dispose her body in your town's local brook.

So how do you choose the woman of you life?

when love itself is like a Jerry Springer fight?

I will give you advice, so it is understandable,

if you cant handle a man, resort to an animal.

But don't get upset, do not succuomb to remorse,

Cause Ej is considered one, since he's hung like a horse.

Thank you.

Edited by Ejayrazz
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The world in which I live

Has naught to give

but misery and strife

All I've got

Is this damn pot

On which I've sat my whole damn life

And everyday

I !@#$ away

Like crapping out a knife

At least this pot of !@#$

On which I sit

Is actually my wife

Edited by Trinite
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Secretly, we're actually hoarding poetry for future conflicts.

Our well respected combatants in the previous war, IRON, know that Vogon Poetry has a serious impact on ones psyche.

Thus, we thought we'd tap into the creativity of the entire planet.

300 tech is a small price to pay for this great weapon of mass destruction.

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Dirty Love

Dedicated To My Disgusting Delloosh Love, Fetanglemore. We are now together forever.

Sweet fetid Fetanglemore

How I fougrosly forgo you

fiercely fretting forgotten fenaddilings,

I hope to be yours forevermore

Do you agree?

From your scintillating fangdoglements

to, the basement of your forgotten irish home

I deploringlatingly want to be nothing but there

on your voluptuous gegesting endowments

Sweet Fetanglemore!

How you entice the senses!

your puss filled fendings rolling lustfully

in and decomposing garbage wasteland of pleasure

beutylessness mine alone, to adore

You cannot predict my lustinglyful loathing

My dearest gighjjug hardens only for you


When my globs sight you, I am falling

Will your beckmoks plod along with me?

Down this crusty dirty path of poisonous passion?

Will you dedangle your delloobs before me?

Wearing dingy molding fashion?

My rotting maw opens wanks open

spewing pellushilital gestinghun on me

whenever you plod past

Fetanglemore, will you take this token?

The token of love

decomposing ever untricullated gooling

formed from despoticilate prolifulate

a gift to us from high above




oh fetanglemore

have you forgotten?

Those oomping urdles of scintillating corruption

on bleeding grehandulous glasses

begone secreting gestatlit

for we once had flotilitaing induction

or have you forgotten?

But my gross?!

our induliculated tortituated action

was sought undending never bending

we said forever, even toast

or have you forgotten?

No. Don’t go

your succulent decreped maw

forming such intolloxilated postulations presumptuously

No. You cant go

Tie this rotted secreteteleded cord around your hungistrous as a lever!

I’ll drag bedostly down these slimy stairs to the basement

Fetter you vivaciously to the distorcritate

You be deliciously disgusting here… forever

See if I don’t

Your succulent sulfurous slime

slipping down slowly

my slotted sulleeenus

I don’t have to pay a dime

Your mine!

Do you want to DIE?

MY fetanglemore

gehhashingly jjjuped

Your decomposing esttter will by mine


Ditarratingly silent

As my sulleeenus deeper rolling ever contilloling

feel wonderfully disgustingly guttered

unmoving vitriolic not violent

Oh but Fetanglemore!

your decrepit mass unmoving in my basement

is jjustiggatingly mine and only mine


Isnt that how we wanted it?

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The Choice

There are not enough graves

in the world to hold all of those

who have wronged me

I am thus left with a choice:

An endless quest of vengance

or an erasing of the past

As both exist only in a machine

Both require the removal

Of several pixels

Pixels from a nation

Or pixels from a post:

How can it be done?

It appears I must hope

for a Deus ex machina

and wait for admin

Electrons to Pixels,

Zeros to Ones


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Discovery of a new belly button named Alan which has grown a leaf

A poem to be read to an inebriated man in order to ensure alcohol poisoning. Comes in two flavors: Parsnip and Cranberry.

Alack! Alas! Aloof! Alan!

Alan, that name

A name of names which have named names!

It is what I rhyme

With time

Climb, time, climb, climb


A new

Belly Button

Alan, that button

Of mutton

In my belly

With my new belly button


Holds a gallon

Of food

So good


Fret! Fail! Fall! Alan!

For a green

Like that of a lean, mean, and keen

Man eating only peas

And like trees

Which have


Alan, that button

Which grew a leaf

So brief

For I ate it

Now, Alan

You hold the leaf

That tasted

Like beef

You grew

Now you knew

What you grew is good

Like stew

Coo coo cashew


Yay! Yes! Yip! Alan!

I had a way

To play

The day


But nay

I slay

And keep at bay

A dragon

For you


Do not fear my dear rear

For I have not forgotten


You shall grow every year

For the new

Grew too

So the old

Grows mold untold…


Now you are happy

While I

Take an after snack nappy

Alan, be good

Do not grow


Not again.

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A Eulogy for the Snackfoods Migrating through my Alimentary Canal

Oh soggy smelly lump of

Cheese Balls

Doth passing through my Oral Chasm, Rejoice!

Gastrointestinal Glee

Awaits in thy future

Through the silky chasm of esophagus

Past the acrid basin of the stomach

Hither the stimulant stretch of duodenum

Anterior to the jovial jurisdiction of the jejunum

Out the ammonium filled ilium

Guided by the cecum

You traverse the fantastic depths of my Large Intestines

Through the ascending colon

Across the transverse colon

and through the lush green fields of the descending colon

Thou hast found thyself in mine sigmoid flexure

Where we shall meet once more

outside the fixtures of my rectum

And we shall celebrate, one last time

As you abscond in a glorious chorus of flatulence

And I press

Most melancholy

upon the cold metallic length of the


Edited by Floatsam
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The agony, deadwrecking

my slumpky brain of

this soberficial

intelligent creature.

It is the worst

gain in eternity

of the sluggish

rascally children


Planet Bob.

The forwardness

of Click'n'do

planet is none.

Wrecking the

brainalive worms

of idiotic

gatherings with

prime essentials.















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Repugnant back zit out of reach seen only in reflection,

Reach to destroy it before it engulfs us whole,

Scrape at it with nails an explosion of blood and pus,

Squeeze at it oozing blood and pus until drained,

Swelling pustulent flesh as fingernail infects,

Scabby wound heals encapsulated,

Unsightly browning of skin removed and devoured,

Masticating the dried blood and platelets.

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Sprinkles of time on

A cake made of sand.

Rubik's cube dust.

More powders,

Make the whole thing mysterious.

Ghuls rush in where

Wise men

Never go

Can I say macaroni-iiii?


Chamber pots running

Through the hills

Hoarding precious

Feces for

An hemophilic chistera player.

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No wander then apart decries

It's heart beats hardly, roomy eyes

Inobdurate, this sick malaise

Madness feels the lonesome daze

Still others loose the will to liven

They're decent into Hell a given

To week there withered limbs to rise

The bonefire, nest to crackling guys

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