Bubba's Poem Barn
Do footles ever fournicate?
From two come more, and soon there’s eight
The image conjured up ain’t great
Them spondees, trochees on a date
Gosh, aren’t they cute? They’re all the rage
right there in strands across the page
Cuz less is more, and I’m a sage
The tribble's I don’t act my age
Or have you ever metaphor?
I’ve met a ten, but ’twas before
My wife - we don’t use scales no more
a weighty matter, out the door!
Why's it folks don’t discuss meter?
You mention length, the convo peters…
‘Was thinking more 'bout counting sheep
And not how long the missus keeps
The high regard for iambs, odd
The way they sound, you’d think they’re god
And what about the punks you ate?
My colon’s bad; I still dash great.
And then there is the Bard’s blank verse
I think they’re hiding something worse
Like sometimes how, here at the Soup
They filter words worse than Jan’s poop.
I’d best not rant on dactyl feet;
For now I think my work’s complete
Y’all come back, we'll spin a yarn
I'm ratcheer at the Poem Barn
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