Loyal readers are doubtless aware of Odious' and my fondness for bad poetry, often favouring it over good. Since Billy Collins and Were the Gracchi worth the hassle don't don't quite compete in this category, let me offer up the following:
At ease he sits upon the pool
And, void of fuss or trouble,
Makes vesper music fit for kings
From out an empty bubble:
A long-drawn-out and tolling cry,
That drifts above the chorus
Of shriller voices from the marsh
That April nights send o'er us;
A tender monotone of song
With vernal longings blending
The rises from the ponds and pools,
And seems at times unending;
A linked chain of bubbling notes,
When birds have ceased their calling,
That lulls the ear with soothing sound
Like voice of water falling.
It is the knell of winter dead;
Good-by his icy fetter.
Blessings on thy warty head:
No bird could do it better.
--John Burroughs, The Song of the Toad
