Finally had the inspiration and motivation to finish this chapter. :P And I am not as bad at poetry as the Apollo campers are. Truly. The following bad poems were written badly on purpose.
Review, por favor.
Disclaimer: I don't own PJO. Would I be writing fanfiction if I did?
It was nighttime, after hours, the quiet like a blanket on the camp. Same old campers running around in cabins to go to sleep, same stars twinkling in the deep blue sky, same harpies screeching for rule-breaking campers' blood in the distance.
Well.
Maybe not quiet, per say...
"Why can't they shut up?" exclaimed an Apollo girl, throwing her guitar pick on the cabin's wooden floor in frustration, where it slid neatly between the slats.
"Want to ask them close-up?" asked a mischievous-looking boy on a top bunk.
"Cool rhyme, dude," the camper below him grinned, giving him a high-five with a resounding slap.
"A couplet is nothing," the camp counselor moaned theatrically. "Put it in a haiku, and then maybe I'll consider it a valid poem. Maybe."
"I can do it!" the oldest daughter of Apollo (coincidentally, the one considered the best at poetry in the cabin) interjected. "How's this?"
She closed her eyes dramatically, held her hands up, and recited:
"Why can't they shut up?
You want to ask them close up?
Been nice knowing you."
Applause rang through the cabin, and the girl beamed innocently at the success of her awe-inspiringly brilliant little haiku (all sarcasm by the writer intended, mind you).
"You guys suck at poetry," a tall, lanky boy on a lower bunk interjected. "Like, seriously."
The girl bristled. "Well, ex-cuuuuse me. You try doing better!"
"Gladly," he muttered, carelessly tossing his flute to his nightstand. "Apologies are acceptable in a letter, because none of you can do any better."
Halfhearted claps sounded among his siblings. Because come on, a rhyme as lame as that was recognizable even among the decidedly non-poetic Apollo campers.
"You call that a poem?
Then go ahead and show 'em
Just how lame is
Our poem whiz.
They'll kick you back to Rome."
Enthusiastic cheers for Apollo's eldest daughter this time.
"Poem and Rome don't even rhyme properly!" the boy scoffed.
"Who says poems have to rhyme?" she countered.
"If they start out rhyming, they should continue that way! Someone needs to go back and retake first grade poetry class here."
"Oh, go learn to play the flute properly! You're always sharp," she retorted.
(As all the Apollo campers know but my readers don't, his flute was the pride of his heart and his greatest talent...although, admittedly, he was always pitchy.)
"Oh, snap," someone muttered in the corner, clearly enjoying the battle. "Low blow, there."
But no more was heard from the son and daughter of Apollo as they rolled on the floor in a maelstrom of bad poetry, teeth, and flute music.
With a stroke of genius, another son of Apollo came up with the following haiku:
"Poems in the air
People rolling on the floor
This is so much fun."
Somewhere up in Olympus, Apollo wiped away a tear of pride.