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Poetry as an Olympic event? Slightly bent or heaven sent.

By: William Thomas, For comments, ideas and copies of The True Story of Wainfleet, go to www.williamthomas.ca

By William Thomas

Canada sent a poet to the London Olympics.  Seriously, we sent a rhymer to a musclefest which is sort of like sending a Seventh Day Adventist to the World Series of Poker.

Unfortunately the Canadian poet did not win a medal because under pressure, she was unable to come up with a word that rhymes with “podium.”  If poetry ever becomes an official Olympic event, America’s Jesse Jackson is a lock for the gold.

“To my fellow Olympians and even you Canadians.

Run fast, run far, compete clean, be a star.

Down with dope and up with hope.

Strive for perfection without losing your direction.

If your mind can conceive it and your heart can believe it,

Then you can achieve it.  Get hold of that gold.”

Canadian writer Priscila Uppal attended the London Olympics as poet-in-residence for Canadian Athletes Now, the same role she played at the Vancouver Winter Games.  Each day Priscila wrote two poems inspired by the athletes she watched in competition.

A typical example of her works is “Gymnastics Love Poem.”  “I can honestly say I’ve bent over backwards for you, executed front flips and twists and somersaults in your name.  I’ve tumbled my way in and out of corners.  I’ve kicked up storms and spun my wheels.  I’ve learned to balance my heart on my sleeve while …”

Okay, I know what you’re thinking – you’d rather watch China play South Korea in the “Nobody Wants To Win This Stupid Badminton Match.”  Wasn’t that amazing?  Two of the best badminton teams in the world desperately trying to tank in front of thousands of booing spectators.  The only way that game could have been uglier is if they’d been using a live bird.

I wished somebody had offered me the job of poet-in-residence at these Olympics.  I’d a been there faster than a Chinese swimmer on a cocktail of chewable steroids and nuclear enriched blood.

A Nod To Humour

If the opening ceremony is the real big show,

The splendid start that gives the games their glow.

Shouldn’t they award medals to the best we’ve seen?

Solid gold to the Queen and a silver to Mr. Bean.


To Ivan Tsikhan

It’s your neck the fans back home want to throttle.

Your were their hero until you peed in the bottle.


Ode To The Javelin

My friend and my fellow warrior, my most worthy opponent.

I stand proudly behind you holding this spear,

The one they call the “Celtic Knife.”

Seriously, it’s either the gold medal or your life!”


Condoms, Condoms Everywhere

150,000 condoms handed out at the games.

Action so furious, they forgot to exchange names.

At these Olympics boinking was more popular than biking,

Making love far more preferable than fighting.

At the London Games everybody was chased,

But nobody was being chaste.


Ode To The Odd

As the winning sprinters take the podium,

Loud thunder and black clouds descend on London.

Amid the gleam of gold and sparkle of silver,

A serious storm circling and heightening and …

And holy crap!  A twist so frightening!

Usain Bolt just got hit by lightening!


A Boo To Women’s Boxing

I can never accept the fairer sex,

Punching each other in the solar plex.

Two women pummeling each other half to death,

Spitting, grunting, out of breath.

I see your bruised faces in my dreams,

Which is why I always wake up to jarring screams.


Alcohol And Athletics

To the Brits and the Belgians,

And all cyclists who drink.

By day churning legs right to the very brink,

By night listening to your pints go “klink, klink, klink.”

On the course you’re brilliant, totally in sync.

At the end of the day you throw up in the sink

You know there’s a test for cycling drunk.

It’s a roadside test call a big, tree trunk.

In A Flash, Victory Vanished

As breathless sprinters raised their 4×100 batons,

The scoreboard showed Canadian men had won the bronze.

They’d run out from obscurity and into the limelight,

Until a track judge spotted something not quite right.

Jared Connaughton had accidentally stepped on a lane line,

And it might as well have been a live landmine.

In under four seconds this runner elite,

Had experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of da feet.


Farewell To A Norwegian Ref

It was a classic match on the Old Trafford patch,

A fired-up Canada against America’s best.

In the world for women’s football, no better batch.

The greatest play in the history of the game,

Was stopped by a Norwegian whose nickname is “Lame.”

Though Wambach and Rapinoe did America proud,

Sinclair scored three and the Canucks got loud.

It was a barn burner, a ball buster, one for the book,

Until Christina Pederson assumed the role of the crook.

She jobbed us once, she robbed us twice.

She far outdid the three blind mice.

A classic was ruined, a thing of beauty cracked,

But I’ll bet Pederson got her green card fast-tracked.

With Prince Harry cheering in full Olympic mood,

Our team, The Pride of the Pitch, got royally screwed.

Our feelings for Pederson no words can tell,

Unless they spell “Go Straight To Hell!”


As I said, I would have liked to be the Olympic poet-in-residence and now you know why I wasn’t.



For comments, ideas and

copies of The True Story

of  Wainfleet, go to


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