lookin' for everything good.
(icon: muggamanga)
Lol NYT painting Arnab fucking Goswami as a victim of attacks on free press in India when his entire ethos has been fucking running the idea of an independent press into the ground and when he's been running an extensive disinformation propaganda campaign in Maharashtra, to undermine the incumbent party, via his TV channel on behalf of the BJP central government is so fucking disingenious it's upsetting
i’m counting at least four dead giveaways and another obvious cop
I’ve noticed that while the ins and outs of the spelling and words used in the “i lik the bred” meme have been much debated, I’ve not yet noticed a discussion on form. There may certainly be one, and I would be happy if someone one pointed me that way, but I haven’t seen one yet.
Work was long and boring today, and got me thinking about why certain variants of the meme feel right, and some feel off somehow.
I would argue that it has nothing to do with the spelling, and everything to do with the form and rhyming scheme used. I would even go so far as to postulate that one could use perfectly normal spelling, and still garner the same comedic effect if the poem is read out loud (key words: out loud, I understand that this meme very much a visual medium, and much of the humour stems from that).
I have no idea whether this poetic form was already in use, or whether we are witnessing the creation of an entirely new style (which should be dubbed
Garlandian poetry if this is indeed the case), but either way, I have noticed that every successful poem follows the same model. Henceforth, I shall attempt to set forward an analysis of the style, structure, form and rhyme scheme that I have observed.
First we have the original poem by Sam Garland (Poem_for_your_sprog on Reddit):
my name is Cow,
and wen its nite,
or wen the moon
is shiyning brite,
and all the men
haf gon to bed -
i stay up late.
i lik the bred.
(Again, much has been made of the spelling, so I will not rehash that here.)
i lik the bred starts with an introduction: “my name is cow”, which is then followed by some sort of description - in this case the state of time, in other poems this is a state of being, or a place. This description starts with “and wen” which connects the two lines, and causes the reader to keep reading, as the sentence (and story/scenario) has not been realised so far.
The next two lines introduce an alternate, but related scenario - which can be substituted with lines that expand the initial staging - and then is followed by an action taken by other people/creatures/objects. This action again can be related, and often seems random until read in the original context.
For instance: “and all the men, haf gon to bed” makes sense insofar as the original lines presented a nighttime scenario, but seems odd to be
specifically
the focus of a cow’s musings, until placed in the original context, which is that of licking the bread, and particularly, licking the bread when not allowed to do so (per the source material’s tale of health food inspections).
As an aside, the fact of the poem only making proper sense when connected to the source material is part of what gives it meme status, nevermind anything else.
The last two lines are of utmost importance. The penultimate line describes, yet again, an action or state of being, that leads directly to - or stems directly from - the last line.
The last line describes an action that the speaker of the poem is undertaking - in the present tense - the explanation for which is given in the rest of the poem. The action can be something that makes sense when taken with the first line only, or that makes no sense unless the rest of the context is known, and thus, the first and last lines of the poem should be able to be read together i.e. “my name is cow, i lik the bred.” but without the rest of the poem, the punchline is rendered impotent, and does in no way cause the same or desired reaction.
This is why - in my opinion - the poem’s two (and not more) stanzas of four lines each (with four syllables per line, always - too little or too many syllables interfere with the meter and cause a sense of wrongness) should be split into one stanza of four lines, one stanza of three, and then the last line - the most important line, what we eagerly read to the end for - should stand alone.
The sense of phrasing and comedic timing flows much better when the poetry is divided thus, and a deviation from this structure can result in an a uneasy feeling when the poem is read aloud.
The rhyme scheme is quite important as well, following in the original the pattern of: ABCB, DDE, D. This is more fluid than the narrative structure or meter, and in the other poems that follow take the form of ABBB, BCD, C, ABCB, DEA, E, and AABA, CDE, D.
The most important thing however, is that the sixth line and the eighth (and final) line must always rhyme (bolded above for emphasis). Any deviation from this destroys the build up and anticipation of the last line from a purely rhyming perspective, and feels decidedly off when read aloud.
So to recap, based on my analysis of the original work, for a new poem to capture the same sense of style and flow:
Naturally, the opportunities for use are endless. From descriptions of films, to pure comedy, to sharp and witty callout posts, the versatility of the form and structure of “i lik the bred” makes it extremely appealing to many denizens of the internet.
Of course, this structure, may and certainly can be deviated from. My purpose in writing this analysis is not to prohibit people from exploring this medium (thus why I have not included any poems that choose not to follow the model), but rather to state my observation that poems that follow the steps outlined above have the highest chance of literary success when compared to the source material.
This is why I argue that spelling does not matter so much, although it most definitely adds another visual element to the whole meme that elevates its appeal and scope above that of current conventional poetry for the present time.
So now I present to you the other poems that I have come across, enjoyed and used in my analysis of “i lik the bred”:
The first of these is by soundingonlyatnightasyousleep, and the source material, while obvious, is more funny specifically to the portion of Marvel fandom that made a big deal out of Bucky’s backpack of sadness, and the plums he ate (or didn’t eat) in Captain America Civil War.
Civil War aka
my name is Buck
and wen i’m free,
or wurld polise
chayse after me,
and best frend Steev
is beeing dum -
I run away.
I lik the plum.
This poem ticks the steps quite nicely. The meter is consistant with “I lik the bred” and the punchline is set up and executed flawlessly. The first line is an introduction, and can be read alone with the last line and still make sense in a way. The second line describes a state of being, and the middle of “Civil War aka” brings together two narratives elements that stand alone but are related in a fondly whimsical fashion.
The penultimate line stems directly from the last line, and makes it that much funnier, because those who have watched the film know that due to running away, Bucky DID NOT in fact, get to “lik the plum”. This is also a prime example of the intricacies of meme culture, as prior knowledge of both the film, AND the “i lik the bred” poem is required to fully grasp the humour of “Civil War aka”.
The second poem comes to us from officiallordvetinari, and is a meme within a meme, as it was prompted by this poem (in of itself a freeform poem commenting on memes of the interent) by and-then-he-melted:
cat goes lol
doggo goes bork
cow goes chaucer-esque verse
My name is Cow
And in the memes
The beests ar all
Unlyke it seemsThe Cat spekes lol
“Bork” Dog has sed
And as for CowI lik the bred
Again, you will observe that this poem feels “right” when read aloud, and brings a smile to one’s face. Some very creative arranging has been done with the words to get them to fit the form, and that is another beautiful aspect of the work.
Not everybody on ‘ye old tumblrcdotcom’ enjoys this meme however, as user harkerling bitterly expressed: Heaven save me from “i lik the bred” discourse.
Not to be outdone, morethanprinceofcats: responded with a delightful repartee that again perfectly follows the form, meter and style of “i lik the bred” but deviates entirely from the subject matter of the original, and does not touch upon a film or popular culture, yet still stays true to the original spirit of the meme and is bitingly funny:
i Tumblere be
and wen a meme
cause too much joy
In my esteem
with righteous hart
And no remorse -
I find its faults.I Disc the Course.
I very much hope you enjoyed reading this analysis and that it shed some light into the the workings of the poems that are floating around, and that it helped if any of you dear tumblr users were wondering how to create your own works.
my name is rose
And wen I think
of how things work
and rymes are linked
I spenned too long
wryting for you
goodnite to all
I bid adyeu
This is Arwen, she’s a Husky/Kelpie mix and a little Asshole:
I love her so much.
(If you got a laugh out of this, please consider donating to my Tip Jar or Paypal to get Arwen (and Charlie!) nice treats)
Evening reblog with an additional Shenanigan I just remembered:
One of the regulars at the dog park was an unfixed basset hound with an obnoxiously indifferent owner. “Brad” shows up pretty much to smoke weed and let “Bojangles” harass the other dogs, in spite of regular complaints about Bo starting fights and trying to mount every dog, leg, and toddler in sight.
One evening, Bo was particularly interested in Arwen, aggressively following her, nipping her heels and trying to mount her, even after her usual wolverine-like Snap’n’Snarl, which has tended to discourage unwanted suitors before. Brad was Too Damn High to notice, as usual, but mom knew that if Arwen actually bit Bo, Arwen would be the one in trouble and was trying to call her when Bo made yet another attempt and Arwen finally had it.
Instead of rightfully tearing his face off, Arwen instead did what Mom described as “A Judo-style front-flip” that pulled Bo clean off the ground and threw him on his back, Arwen landing on her feet like a cat. Bo’s stubby little legs didn’t allow him to right himself before Arwen jumped on him, front paws slamming into his saggy basset balls, squatted over his face, and peed on him.
“ARWEN NO!!” howled my mother as nearly everyone else present laughed, but having made her point, Arwen daintily got off Bo, and trotted to the gate, ready to go home. Bo yelped but got up and skulked away, only moderately bruised, cowering under the bench by Brad, who finally noticed something might be amiss.
Mom remembers hearing “Dude, why is my dog all wet?” right as they were leaving. Apparently nobody told him what happened, becuase Brad still brings Bo to the park, but Bo has much better manners now.
I read this whole thing to my mom and upon reading the end part she was like “OH MY GOD! Our dog Lady once flipped another dog and I didn’t know it was a thing dogs could do!!”
So there’s that.
Update: Arwen was at the vet’s office for a check-up and daycare, and decided partway through the afternoon that the other two kelpies were annoying her, but she didn’t want to go inside to be kenneled for a nap, so she instead…
…ninja’d her way onto the vet’s roof despite there being three people in the yard watching the dogs and no clear way up there. She had a pleasant hour of watching the vet staff try to figure out how she did that and how they were going to get her down before mom came to pick her up.
“Arwen, get your furry butt down here!”
At which point Arwen obidently got down by jumping into a nearby tree that’s technically inside a neighboring house’s yard, shimmied down that like a bear, then walked out of their side yard and back around the block to come sit at Mom’s feet, putting her paws up like she expected a treat.
That tree is not accessible from the daycare yard. We still have no idea how she got up there.
Shine on you beautiful bitch.
This is actually how my first attempt at coming out and confessing to my girlfriend played out lmao
BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE:
This is that weird abstract millennial humour that we all laugh at and older generations squint at shouting “I don’t understand the joke!! I think I’ve missed something!!”
what do other people have against subtitles? like bitch,.. my ears are Not Friends with my brain, let me have my captions
Nah, nah, nah, Humans might turn out to be the Deathworlders or the Pack-Bond-To-Everything species, but I’ve got an idea what we’d be.
The thing I’ve heard most about Breath Of The Wild is that everyone wants to bang the shark guy.
The thing I’ve heard most about Mass Effect is that you can seduce all the aliens. (And that the ending for the third game was bad, I don’t know, I never played it.)
You see a picture of an alien,(or an elf or an orc or whatever) and there will be a comment somewhere of what said alien would be like in bed.
That’s our role in the universe- that no matter how strange the species, there is a human somewhere who will try to seduce them.
For everything that exists, there is:
the three human instincts: FIGHT, FRIEND, FUCK
Three aliens in a space!bar:
A1: “You’ve heard about humans, right?”
A2 & 3: “Oh sure. Yeah, of course.”
All three, simultaneously:
“They’ll fight all the time, even with inanimate objects.”
“They’ll bond with everything. Every. Thing. Even the fiercest, most dangerous creatures.”
“They fuck, like, everyone. And I don’t think you can turn off their flirting mechanism.”
All 3, simultaneously: “Wait, what?”
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the
earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost
before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath
your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to
rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
