What I miss most about my metatarsal
Was one day when I started to parcel
It out with all of the rest of my remains
Which suffered and endured aches and pains.
Rest of me also was rather unique,
But through time our bodies still peak
In performance and downhill have to go;
Only thing left is for curiosity to grow.
Still in the somber scene is our senility
Along with all of our poetic ability
While we wonder never knowing quite why
Rhyming is troubling for others who try.
So read their poems and with associate;
Writing will be better and turn out great
And some day many may have insisted
That I rare back and join Poetry Revisited.
Finally, after someone's reluctant request
And hearing my poems often had confessed
So strange and unusual they happened to be
Which is why I like living in land of the free.