A Short Poem

My poems are growing longer When reciting I run out of puff My lungs, once much stronger Struggle with long-winded stuff So, I'm writing this short refrain To curb my penchant to ramble I'm trying my best to abstain From including excess preamble I'd like to say it's a breeze But the truth is, it isn't at all Some writers do it with ease I go large rather than small So in future when penning a verse And my lines seem a little snappy Or appear to be overly terse . . . Let me throw in a line overblown . . . that's no longer pared down to the bone . . . that takes on a life of its own . . . that may make you chuckle or groan . . . of a gargoyle that's carved out of stone . . . parachutes above the drop zone . . . the baddest badass since Capone . . . the last of the species alone . . . the smell of grass freshly mown . . . the melt-in-the-sun ice cream cone . . . smooth jazz from a cool saxophone . . . the wrong that you cannot condone . . . to say scon or should it be scone . . . can Canute turn the tide from his throne . . . a neverending line in a poem . . . that's more than a little slaphappy