The Agonies of poetry
‘Poetry’ this month is the name of the game,
But rhyming of words is a chore.
I may find two words that sound just the same,
And stretch my old brain finding more.
But who would talk in this funny old way,
And what girl would wait to hear,
Her loving young man seeking words to say,
He adores her, in words that rhyme clear?
It’s all in the way you say it, my friends,
You practice at home for an hour,
And if words don’t fit, well then just pretend,
You stretch the last word with a slur.
You might think of Byron, a poet of old,
He was the pop star of the day,
With looks that he had, or so I’ve been told,
The girls would come flocking all day.
But poetry now is not for us all,
Even lyrics in music are bad,
Finding words that rhyme but still tell the tale,
Drive me crazy, quite crazy, quite mad.
But every so often, like waking from dream,
The words will stop tumbling around,
They’ll tell us the story, the one that I mean,
And the rhyming is such a sweet sound.
So poetry, well it’s not really for me,
I find it so painfully hard,
But when it comes right, it’s good as can be,
I feel just like Shakespeare, the bard.