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“Well for God's sake I hope you managed to rectify that a bit.” “Oh yes, well I managed to transmit a new entry off to the editor. He had to trim it a bit, but it's still an improvement.” “And what does it say now?” asked Arthur. “Mostly harmless,” admitted Ford with a slightly embarrassed cough. “Mostly harmless!” shouted Arthur. “What was that noise?” hissed Ford. “It was me shouting,” shouted Arthur. “No! Shut up!” said Ford. I think we're in trouble.” “You think we're in trouble!” Outside the door were the sounds of marching feet. “The Dentrassi?” whispered Arthur. “No, those are steel tipped boots,” said Ford. There was a sharp ringing rap on the door. “Then who is it?” said Arthur. “Well,” said Ford, “if we're lucky it's just the Vogons come to throw us in to space.” “And if we're unlucky?” “If we're unlucky,” said Ford grimly, “the captain might be serious in his threat that he's going to read us some of his poetry first…” Chapter 7 Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azagoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode To A Small Lump of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England in the destruction of the planet Earth.

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