The poem commemorating the the death of the man who invented Ramen Noodles won Slate.com's worst poem contest. It was written by Rhymin' Worm who is an AT hiker. I lifted it from their site:
The grand prize winner of Slate's Bad Poetry Contest, the only entry to win four out of four votes from our judges, goes to rhymworm for his epically awful elegy to the recently deceased inventor of Ramen noodles, "Arigato, Momofuku:"
I.
He softened up after the winter solstice:
The springs were icy, the ridgelines almost deserted,
And snowdrifts filled corners of the hiking shelters;
The LCDs froze in the glass of each GPS display.
Our mileage tables tend to agree:
His last day on earth was a zero day.
Far from the test kitchens
Purists trudged south past the blue-blazed shortcuts
And hostel-keepers allowed the old year's air to clear;
By hiking-boot tongues
The death of the noodle king was kept from his soups.
But for Ando-san present and future now were pasta,
Steeped in MSG and savory broth;
The cellophane lost air-tightness,
The desiccated brick began to moisten,
Dampness invaded the packaging,
The starch lost its stiffness; he became his flavor varieties.
Now he waits on shelves in a hundred trail towns,
Wholly given over to odd combinations--
Slathered with peanut butter, perhaps,
Or sautéed with a mess of spring ramps.
The carbs of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the thru-hike plans of tomorrow,
When gear salesmen are demonstrating the newest ultra-light cookstove,
And post offices stack the duct-taped boxes
to which they have become mostly resigned,
And each thru-hiker imagines himself alone atop a ridge,
A few wanderers may recall this day
As one recalls a day when one left something at the previous shelter.
Our registers all agree:
His last day on earth was a zero day.
II.
You hungered as we do; your dream transcended ours:
Deep-fried noodles, made permeable in palm oil,
Then dried-lightweight, calorific; just add water.
Now hikers have oatmeal and their ramen too,
For noodles simply keep one going, enduring
To the next town stop, or maildrop, where gourmands
Would never think to pause; starchy strands
One carries past bears and shelter mice, or eats
Raw in hostels when low on cash; surviving,
Sure of something they will fill-a mouth.
III.
Dirt, receive a soupy mess:
Ando-san is laid to rest.
Let the camp stove cookware be
Emptied of its noodlery.
'Round the fire-ring in the dark
All the trail dogs pant and bark.
There some camping party waits,
Freeze-dried omelets on their plates;
Palpable is their disdain:
Noodles? No, they will not deign;
Their food's from an outdoors store
(Packets paid twelve dollars for).
Hikers, though, don't find it strange
To fill up for two bits and change.
(In fact it's truly not uncommon
to hike for days, just eating ramen;
Those who walk and persevere
Have to save their cash for gear.)
Who cares if the trans-fats mount?
Bless that high caloric count!
Momofuku, go in peace
Be at ease in your release:
Most men slurp, so few men chew;
Hikers will remember you.
humerous AT poems
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Originally Posted by kirbyinanutshell232
