Vogon, Capital Kiwi?...what, or who, is that?
A cue I am incapable of resisiting. From The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe.
The second worst is that of the Azagoths of Kria. During a
recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his
poem "Ode To A Small Lump of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One
Midsummer Morning" four of his audience died of internal
haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts
Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off.
Grunthos is reported to have been "disappointed" by the poem's
reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-
book epic entitled My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles when his own
major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and
civilization, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled
his brain.
The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator
Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England in
the destruction of the planet Earth.
The prisoners sat in Poetry Appreciation Chairs --strapped in.
Vogons suffered no illusions as to the regard their works were
generally held in. Their early attempts at composition had been
part of bludgeoning insistence that they be accepted as a
properly evolved and cultured race, but now the only thing that
kept them going was sheer bloodymindedness.
The Vogon began to read - a fetid little passage of his own
devising.
"Oh frettled gruntbuggly ..." he began. Spasms wracked Ford's
body - this was worse than ever he'd been prepared for.
"... thy micturations are to me | As plurdled gabbleblotchits on
a lurgid bee."
"Groop I implore thee," continued the merciless Vogon, "my
foonting turlingdromes."
His voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned
stridency. "And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly
bindlewurdles,| Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my
blurglecruncheon, see if I don't!"
