To facet lines of poetry. I.E., end here with "sun."
Sometimes you have to substitute with rhymes that aren't right
Because you haven't anything to say that's nice and light.
There's times when poets tear their hair, there's times of which I'd tell
When poem-writing for a job is like a living hell.
For Shakespeare, writing long ago, who prosed on goods and ills
It was no avocation- just a way to pay the bills.
When writers set their pens in hand and fashion verse on verse
In hopes of winning laurels, or to cast intricate curse
Or beaut'ous words are flowing, words that trip upon the tongue
Words in clever patterns, using better rhymes than "stung"
Then I say, look to Englishmen. Those boys knew words and writing
And sprinkled dreary romances with lots of death and fighting.
I've more to say, but not today. My resource is exhausted
And I'm not even sure that there is such a word as "fauceted."
You who stop to smell the roses
Will wind up paying through your noses.