Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been toying with the idea of entering a bad poetry contest. Because if there's anybody qualified to write bad poetry, it's Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Not being a poet, and definitely knowin' it, she consulted her resident poet laureate, The Pony.
"Hey, Pony! What kind of a poem is a pantourn?"
"WHAT? That's not a poem. Unless, perhaps, you're talking about a pantoum, which I already told you what it was in the car that last time I read you some of mine that I was going to submit. And since you obviously don't remember, I'm not going to waste my time now. Just Google it!"
Let the record show that he waved his clicky elbow in my face for emphasis as he gestured from behind my left shoulder in my dark basement lair towards the glow of the computer screen. The clicky right elbow, the first one broken, which was immobilized before surgery in an unconventional way, in a full-arm cast bent with his thumb poking himself in the belly, rather than giving the thumbs up. So that now it does not extend completely, but makes a disconcerting angry noise when full extension is attempted. Not with the full range-of-motion left elbow, the second one broken, which received the plastic, removable (for one hour per day for bathing) cast which left his thumb aligned skyward.
"All right then. You don't have to get huffy about it."
Is it Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's fault that she has more pressing matters on her mind, and that, perhaps, her aging eyes cannot distinguish, without a trifocal, between ourn and oum at then end of a word on the monitor?
Some days it just doesn't pay to write bad poetry.