Lit Lit 3 Results

It's time for the results of our Mad Libs from last week. The poem I used for this was Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art" (one of two villanelles that don't make me crazy, and, yes, the other one is "Do Not Go Gentle . . ."). Why do villanelles make me crazy? Too much end rhyme and too much repetition, usually of ideas that don't bear repeating. However, for a Mad Libs, I though a (good) villanelle would be fun. Instead of having participants fill in a jillion verbs, I simply conjugated the ones I asked for in the refrain.

This week, I'll go back to prose, and I have no idea what I'm going to put on the lexical chopping block, but it should be fun!

Please vote for your favorite in the comments.

Without further ado, here are the reults from the participants' word lists:

MIKEY

The base of running isn’t brown to say;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be run that their loss is no dog.

Run something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the cat hardly spent.

The art of running isn’t hard to say.

Then practice running farther, running faster:

fish, and sheep, and where it was you meant

to reach. None of these will bring dog.

I ran my mother’s car. And drive! my seventh, or

next-to-seventh, of three loved rangers went.

The art of running isn’t hard to say.

I ran two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some rockets I owned, two teeth, a tooth.

I pulled them, but it wasn’t a dog.

—Even running you (the singing voice, a gesture

I sting) I shan’t have lied. It’s ordinary

the base of running’s not too hard to say

though it may look like (Write it!) like dog.

MOTHER COMBS

The snare drum of marching isn’t lively to drive;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be marched that their loss is no bunny.

March something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the top hat quickly spent.

The art of marching isn’t hard to drive.

Then practice marching farther, marching faster:

butterflies, and mowers, and where it was you meant

to run. None of these will bring bunny.

I marched my mother’s starfish. And talk! my twelfth, or

next-to-twelfth, of three loved horses went.

The art of marching isn’t hard to drive.

I marched two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some jockeys I owned, two televisions, a sunshine.

I grew them, but it wasn’t a bunny.

—Even marching you (the running voice, a gesture

I fixed) I shan’t have lied. It’s large

the snare drum of marching’s not too hard to drive

though it may look like (Write it!) like bunny.

PAUL

The man of working isn’t beautiful to dig;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be worked that their loss is no woman.

Work something every day. Accept the fluster

of working door keys, the car cruelly spent.

The art of working isn’t hard to dig.

Then practice working farther, working faster:

scooters, and cows, and where it was you meant

to fight. None of these will bring woman.

I worked my mother’s parrot. And fly! my eighteenth, or

next-to-eighteenth, of three loved children went.

The art of working isn’t hard to dig.

I worked two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some doves I owned, two parrots, a wolf.

I ran them, but it wasn’t a woman.

—Even working you (the floating voice, a gesture

I dance) I shan’t have lied. It’s seductive

the man of working’s not too hard to dig

though it may look like (Write it) like woman.

TIM CARMICHAEL

The sprint of glittering isn’t whisper to collapse;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be glittered that their loss is no lantern.

Glitter something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the river fiercely spent.

The art of glittering isn’t hard to collapse.

Then practice glittering farther, glittering faster:

bananas, and robots, and where it was you meant

to collapse. None of these will bring lantern.

I glittered my mother’s thunder. And juggle! my third, or

next-to-third, of three loved penguins went.

The art of glittering isn’t hard to collapse.

I glittered two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some pillows I owned, two tornadoes, a backpack.

I hovered them, but it wasn’t a lantern.

—Even glittering you (the dancing voice, a gesture

I escape) I shan’t have lied. It’s mysterious

the sprint of glittering’s not too hard to collapse

though it may look like (Write it!) like lantern.

SASHA

The carpet of flying isn’t subtle to shine;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be flown that their loss is no beauty.

Fly something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the bread steadily spent.

The art of flying isn’t hard to shine.

Then practice flying farther, flying faster:

sisters, and coffers, and where it was you meant

to dive. None of these will bring beauty.

I flew my mother’s home. And swipe! my hundredth, or

next-to-hundredth, of three loved books went.

The art of flying isn’t hard to shine.

I flew two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some journeys I owned, two stars, a food.

I ran them, but it wasn’t a beauty.

—Even flying you (the crying voice, a gesture

I tell) I shan’t have lied. It’s poignant

the carpet of flying’s not too hard to shine

though it may look like (Write it!) like beauty.

These were my human participants. For fun, to see what happened, I fed the list of parts of speech to my bot and had it generate a list, too. Here are those results:

GARFUNKEL

The chandelier of dissolving isn’t fluorescent to wrestle;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be dissolved that their loss is no marmalade.

Dissolve something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the cathedral recklessly spent.

The art of dissolving isn’t hard to wrestle.

Then practice dissolving farther, dissolving faster:

taxidermists, and hurricanes, and where it was you meant

to levitate. None of these will bring marmalade.

I dissolved my mother’s dishwasher. And unravel! my seventh, or

next-to-seventh, of three loved crickets went.

The art of dissolving isn’t hard to wrestle.

I dissolved two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some neckties I owned, two glaciers, a thumbtack.

I ricocheted them, but it wasn’t a marmalade.

—Even dissolving you (the apologizing voice, a gesture

I ferment) I shan’t have lied. It’s carnivorous

the chandelier of dissolving’s not too hard to wrestle

though it may look like (Write it!) like marmalade.

I hope everyone enjoyed this edition. I'll have this week's up in an hour or two.