I don�t claim to be a poet,
I have no gift for rhyme.
My verse often comes out corny,
The rhythm not in time.
And yet, it will sometimes happen,
And it is quite a shock,
That the rhyming then comes easy,
And it is hard to stop.
Every thought running through my mind
Is in an A B scheme.
Pentameters jump here and there
And make an awful scene.
And now the rhymes come fast and thick,
They crowd my weary head.
They clamor and won�t let me sleep,
Though I�d prefer my bed.
�Stop! Let me rest!� I plead and cry,
�I�ll write no more tonight!�
�Oh yes you will!� the rhymes answer,
�This poem will see light!�
I toss and turn, they yell and scream,
With much iambic flare.
I put the pillow ore� my head,
They screech and pull my hair.
�Fine!� I yell, �You will get your way!
I�ll get paper and pen,
Maybe if I write you rhymes out
I won�t see you again!�
I reach my desk, the rhymes all cheer,
But they know not my plight.
I may have the ability,
But now have nothing to write!
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