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