Greetings. This is my entry into Gregor's contest for the worst poem.
It's the true story of some legs that were washed up on a lonely shore in Trafalgar, in the early 1700's, and their effect on the people of the town there. The inhabitants who discovered them were mystified by their arrival, and some simply ran in fear, others knelt and prayed, while some took it upon themselves to make additions to their already fully legged torsos. This proved to be a drastic mistake, as their walking severely suffered, and they were often made fun of by insensitive children, referring t them as 'Three Legged Dorks' or 'The Tripod People'. These names haunted them for years, and their applications for employment at local Denny's were often coyly discarded, or met with outright rejection.
This is their story.
The porcine waters gathered there,
Where time could only stop and stare
The faithful tide had settled down,
A gruesome legend on the ground
The crescent moon did cast a din,
'Pon pieces of the fateful kin,
And lonely memories rested there,
Like lover's with no hope to share
And wonderment would soon abound,
As limbs about the silent ground,
Would share divergent points of view,
Could He have meant for more than two?
I shant forget that doomful day,
Whence skies once blue, pervaded grey,
And all about the mournful town,
The legs of fortune hurled down.
The end...or is it?