One of the most not very good poets of all time was Noges Tinpptonby (not pictured). Despite concentrating on writing poems for over 50 years, he only completed three. One was over 700 pages long, but he lost it. Another one fell down the back of the sofa where it remained forgotten until it was eaten by his pesky dog, Noncat. His third and final poem remains intact, which he wrote using his favourite fountain pencil:
Poem About Things
Now I see
That this poem might be
A bit too weird
Tis as I feared
And that is how it has appeared
To be
To me
See?
Three
Is the number of poems I have written so far
Ah!
I hope I will write more
Possibly four
Or even five
Unless by that time I am no longer alive.
He died shortly after completing this poem, and never wrote again. His poem lives on, although he may well have have preferred it the other way round.
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