William McGonagall's poems are something else. The jarring meter, the banal imagery, the awkward rhymes: they made him a laughing stock in 19th Century Scotland and are still derided to this day. How does someone get that bad at poetry? Or have we been misunderstanding McGonagall all along?

Shoes, Booze and the Pursuit of Happiness (Pt 1)
38:29

Liar, Bigamist, Brute: How Isaac Singer Liberated Women
37:29

Fritterin' Away Genius (Classic)
37:19