Reckoned I’d write a bit o’ rhymin’ in the cowboy vein;
it slipped outta my lasso and I couldn’t take the rein.
So then I tries my hand at rap
But, white as sand, pheel like a sap
An’, like debates Republicanned, it was all a bunch a cr*p.
Freely versed New Yorkers’
obfuscated, seasonal frame;
still the acorn froze despite the early thaw
that sighed through the Alphabet Jungle.
Haiku too proved too
or pretty petty.