There once was a lyrical poet who rhymed,
intrigued by this technique he was so inclined,
to share his lovely rhymed verse-
now a decrepit olden time curse,
considered both uncouth and passé.
He continued to muse anyway,
and quietly pray that one day
someone will say, “Today, a rhyme is ok-
for children, but is certainly no Monet.”
But he won’t hear that last part,
believing his poetry is truly fine art.
His inspired poetic zeal,
lacked serious public appeal.
Born in the wrong time,
for silly old rhyme,
not one publication with any imagination
gave a standing ovation-overall his narration,
they judged unscholarly and just juvenile-
mockingly, shockingly, straight into the slush pile.
All adverbs aside, this method of poetry he tried
and plied, still too proud for his own pride.
All the while-
that he strung those rhymes in denial,
he believed his old poetry was in style.
Until one day, the rejections too many
more than the poems. So with his last penny,
he thought and bought a last wish at a fountain,
Instead,
I'd rather be dead."
And without any further adieu
his last dying wish came true.
Image by Friedrich von Amerling [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
