Terrible Poetry: Towels

Deliberately terrible, that’s an important distinction.

Chelsea Owens has a great weekly competition to write the worst poetry possible. I won it a while back (it comes worryingly easy for me) but am usually too busy/tired to participate. This week, however, I spotted that the subject had a bit of a Hitch-hikers theme. Chelsea, like myself, is a fan of Douglas Adams and his trilogy in five parts, and so wants people to write a terrible poem about towels. (As in, “you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? He’s a frood who really knows where his towel is.“) And I couldn’t resist.

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Towel Be Soft or Not Towel Be Soft, That is the Question
Wet hands, wet face
Reaching out into space
Clawing, grasping
For my towel in its place
On the towel rail.

Don’t panic! I have it!
Water drips from my nose
Onto the carpet
While I fumble to bring it
(the towel)
To my moistened visage
And rub.

But what is this?
The water on my face
Is simply moved around.
No absorption, no drying
I feel like I’m dying
Even though I’m trying
Really quite hard.

It’s unusually soft
And smells of artificial flowers.
Damn!
It’s been treated with
Fabric conditioner.
Sad Nick. Petitioner:
“Please stop making my towels soft”

I look in the mirror
And sigh, “damn!” again
For ’tis a new towel
And my face is cover’d
In fluff.
I wash my face again.
And sob, tears lost
Amongst a bit more water
From the tap.

I’m trapped
In a vicious circle
How many times will I have
To go round?
Probably 42.

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I hope the Vogons out there enjoy that one. 😉