The worst poet is not Satchel. That honour goes to Edinburgh’s greatest son, William Topaz McGonagall (1825 – 1902). Completely unable to scan or use any form of metaphor, he believed that all a poem needed was to rhyme (nearly). I find it difficult to read more than two or three of his poems in succession before my brain starts to melt, but I still count his collected works as a genuine pleasure. A quick search on the internet will be greatly rewarded.
Terry Pratchett wrote a whole book (Soul Music) just to use the line “There’s a guy works down the chip shop swears he’s elvish”, so she’s in good company.
Before I retired, there used to be a weekly competition in our office to see who could get the most steps in. It was stopped when management realised that all we did was pass the monitors between each other whenever we left our desks.
The worst poet is not Satchel. That honour goes to Edinburgh’s greatest son, William Topaz McGonagall (1825 – 1902). Completely unable to scan or use any form of metaphor, he believed that all a poem needed was to rhyme (nearly). I find it difficult to read more than two or three of his poems in succession before my brain starts to melt, but I still count his collected works as a genuine pleasure. A quick search on the internet will be greatly rewarded.