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MEERCA DAY SPECIAL
A Note from the Poetry Judges: On Monday, August 18, we will be celebrating Bad Poetry Day,
so please send us your very worst bad poems! Now, onto the Meerca Day poems!
Song of the Crumpetmonger
In the foggy depths of night,
Around the corner there's a light.
Beneath the eaves is yellow glow
Of Crumpetmonger's shop window.
Inside she greets you with a grin,
The Meerca cook who's far from thin.
With powdered wig and painted face,
She points to shelves around the place,
And with a great big smile and wink,
She names off every food and drink:
Mini crumpets fresh and warm,
(in a pie!)
Dear, you've got to have a try.
Bread and jam,
This, you see,
Is as fresh as it can be.
We have steak
With a kidney all a-bake.
You'll find out with just one small whiff
There's no other place to go if
You want toast,
Nice and brown.
We're the only place in town!
Try our tea,
Just a sip,
And you'll know it's worth the trip.
This, my darling, is a must.
I can cook
And keep the oven hot all day.
If my fingers are not baking,
Then my hands will begin shaking,
For my dream is to be making
One by one,
Working hard until I'm done.
And I glow
With such pride,
When a buyer comes inside,
For I know
That they'll find
Whatever pastry's on their mind.
And at night,
When I close,
I bring whatever's left back home.
So my dinner you can see will
Never be a second-best meal.
For my passion is to cook till
I can say I've got the best skill.
And, that skill
Is to cook!
Till my fame
Is off the hook!
One day I'll be
The best chef in
But until then I'll slave away,
Working every night and day!
So, my dear, can you now see
How much this baking means to me?
If you please,
Buy a treat,
Something nice and sweet to eat!
And when you leave,
Go back home,
Tell your friends what you now know!
Spread the word,
Help my renown to grow and rise.
So one day
All will say,
The best scones, tarts, pies, and souffle
Are made by... me!
In this shop!
Crumpetmonger's on the top!
And this bakery will be the best of all.
In just a few years time,
I will have reached my prime.
And then they'll say...
On that day...
The Chase Begins!
Tail trembling, paws are tense,
The tension here does rise.
For he who runs the fastest race,
Finds Neggs become his prize.
Such nerves does tiny Meerca face,
This challenge, his one goal.
Entire purpose to his life,
Hope lingers in his soul.
The clock hands meet toward the top,
The chase begins at last!
He'll seek the Neggs that pop up quick,
Provided he moves fast.
A rapid dart, a frenzied speed,
So urgent, each quick dash.
But keep your wits, my Meerca friend,
Or meet a nasty crash!
A cobalt shimmer looms ahead,
He pumps each tiny leg.
The promise of a brilliant score,
All dwells in one Fish Negg.
Beware though as the race goes on,
His tail doth extend!
He'll need to keep aware of this,
Or game, alas, shall end.
Such pride shall swell in Meerca's mind,
He keeps his speeding pace.
His goal complete, a master now,
The King of Meerca Chase!
Another day, another game,
He'll dash back, to and fro.
On your marks, get ready now,
It's time to race, so go!
Two Meerca Thieves
A quick flicker in the night --
Passionate, crimson hue,
Along elusive, liquid blue,
Heermeedjet and Merouladen.
A hot vault deep with gold --
Two slender, swift dark ropes,
Heaving with the hopes
of Heermeedjet and Merouladen.
A black sack huge with weight --
Swaying beneath a star,
"We're rich now, so we are,"
Heermeedjet tells Merouladen.
A rash clash upon a stair --
The trophies skitter off.
Somewhere there is a cough!
Heermeedjet grabs Merouladen.
A run begun in earnest --
All dreams are shoved aside.
There is to be no more pride
for Heermeedjet and Merouladen.
A torch, a scorching voice --
There appears a stern Defender.
"You're arrested, so surrender,
Heermeedjet and Merouladen."
A jail pale with crispness --
In comes a greyish dawn,
Weak light that drips upon
Heermeedjet and Merouladen.
The Halloween Meerca
Stalking the darkest night
Shadowed form out of sight
Hiss of breath, blood-red eyes
Lightning streaks across the skies.
Wings, a broken umbrella shape
Matching the twisted landscape
Bent and broken, ripped and torn
Crouches upon the battlements worn.
Creeping upon the castle wall
Though dizzy high he does not fall
Gargoyle shapes and stone silhouettes
Grimacing, glistening with water wet.
Though secluded and left alone
He watches from his lofty throne.
Night black and chilling pale blue
His tail twitches, angled askew.
Moon is blotted, malevolent clouds,
He relishes in his stormy shroud.
For this sinister castle is his abode
Menacing trees guard the haunted road.
Meerca from the starry skies,
Meerca reflected down in my eyes.
Watching, looking up, I see in the air,
A flying Meerca with burning hair.
By now there's a question: how did he get so high?
It's well-known that a Meerca cannot fly.
The villagers all drop their hoes and rakes,
Their mouths are open, their jaws gape.
Is it just a dream? An illusion spun?
Is there really a Meerca doing the sky-run?
He twists and twirls and loop-the-loops,
Up and down through invisible hoops.
I think he's grinning straight at down me,
Or possibly from up there he cannot even see.
Maybe in his vision there's only air,
Clouds and stars and the moon's secret lair.
Some say he's landing now,
Careful, he might hit that shell-shocked Kau!
But if I were him, I think, I wouldn't come down
Just yet; I'd wait and see the other side of town.
And maybe then, I'd decide to keep going straight,
Lying flat and round like a big paper plate,
Way, way, way up there,
With the flying Meerca.
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