My Virtual Reading Room

PUN-LEAVENED ‘BRED’: HOT ‘LIKS’ FROM WEEK 1219

In Week 1219 we introduced to the Invite “lik the bred” poems, based on the faux-Chaucerian verses posted in various comment threads on Reddit by postdoctoral student Sam Garland, a.k.a. Poem for Your Sprog. While insisting on the Sproggian 32 syllables in iambic meter, the Empress allowed real modern English along with the fake Middle, and for four longer lines as well as eight little ones. And the poems had to refer to someone in the news.

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I especially liked the ones below; you can read the rest of them in The Washington Post's Style Invitational section:

My name is Paul.
My planne was thicke:
It said, “Tough lucke!”
if you get sick.
My planne has met
An Epick Faile.
I slinke away.
I tucke my taille.
(Nan Reiner, Boca Raton, Fla.)

I’m Vladimir and every day
I hack your mail, read what you say.
I doff my shirt at every chance,
but when with Trump I wear the pants.
(Maria Zimmerman, Berryville, Va.)

My name is Sean. I have no couthe.
I know not falsehood from the truthe.
For myne is not to reason why:
They give me jobbe. I sell their lye.
(Nan Reiner)