I spend much of my time
Composing in rhyme,
But do not therefore curse
Free verse,
For sometimes that shoe
Will do
Very well,
While to force a rhyme
(where no rhyme should be)
Is to mangle poetry.
When a very old man of Stroud
Said, “death be not proud”,
Death replied, “you know,
We must together go,
And leave this earthly crowd”.
In woods green
Nymphs were sometimes seen
By mortal men.
Now when
Girls I see in short clothes,
Their toes
Bare, to the sultry air
I wonder where
All the inocence has gone.
Yet Aphrodite
Was flighty
(Was she not?,
And on hot
London nights
Phone calls will be made
And visits paid
By aphrodite, to oh so mortal men
As I at lessons sat
In school
(Generally obeying the rule),
I oft did hear,
Sometimes far, at others near,
A sound clear,
That of men mowing,
Knowing where they where going.
On my way home tonight
I had the delight
Of smelling new mown grass,
Which brought to mind
A more settled time
When I at lessons sat
Reading rhyme,
And men were amowing
Knowing where they where going.
Sometimes I almost weep,
When I think on what my country may reap.
When my friend, whose name is Jane
Composed a poem while on a train,
And I said, “your verse is too terse”,
She really did curse,
As we’d boarded the wrong train!
A creative writing coach named Wong
Said, “your poems are all wrong!”.
But when I did it his way
My readers did say,
“Your writing is very Wong!”.
At summer’s height
Girls delight
In short frocks.
And, on occasions, choose
To lose
Their shoes
And socks.
For by going bare
To the summer air
They find there
The joy of youth.
At summer’s height
The poet takes delight
In girls who
Go without shoe
Or sock,
For they sense not
Time’s, impending, knock.
