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A Rhyme Is A Crime

So, you're out of the Bastille
And you're feeling mighty free
So, won't you please come out to dine
And pay the check for me
I promise to eat little
Just what fits upon this dish
And only drink a drop of wine
If that is what you wish
Desert won't cross my mind
Nor dare to cross my lips
But since you are my host
I will,  if you insist
But Weepopit did not answer
For He thought it was unkind
For his guest to eat so much
With just a drop of wine
Then, to Butterfield he said
Although you're offers sweet
I have no money in which to pay
So perhaps we shouldn't eat
And when the waiter heard this
He showed them to the street

Disappointed but unfurled 
The two, just strolled along
For Paris in the spring
Gave way to Summer's song
Then Weepopit asked of Butterfield
Why'd you wait for me
Butterfield turned and swept away
A tear, no one could see
He said I did not know
That it could be a crime
And people look down upon
Those who write in rhyme
But , Weepopit soon replied
Don't be sorry, or complain
Cause sure as time is passing by
This is also going to change
Do you meant to say one day
That it'll be legalized
Said Butterfield, with smile
And big bright hazel eyes

To be continued...................



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