According to the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, “Vogon poetry is, of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths 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 hemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off.”
For me, Vogon Poetry is the words that seem to tumble out of my head often out of nowhere. Sometimes they occur while I am hiking. Sometimes they come while I am in the shower. Often they show up while I am riding on the back of Roak’s motorcycle. (And frequently, they are not poems at all.)
Unlike the Vogons I do not post these as a form of torture. However, if they strike you that way, run now before your ears begin to bleed! I understand.