In 1972 Barbara Cartland published a volume of her verse. It is terrible poetry but has brought much pleasure to me over the years. Not only does it contain forty or so truely execrable poems like "To A Pekinese"
The car didn't stop and I found you there
Your eyes were closed and your long white fur
Was covered in blood and you didn't stir
but also even worse litle commentaries such as
"This was a gay song written for a musical comedy which, alas, never saw the stage"
"We each give to the world as much of the life force as can flow uninhibited through our confining bodies."
For me they are up there with the alas forgotten "Stuffed Owl" as the epitome of bad poetry. Who needs scots like McGonaghall when we have our own Miss Cartland?