My Limited Perfection

In rhyme, I’m a perfectionist; In other things, I’m not. You’d think I’d treat all things the same But rhyme is what I’ve got. For patience is a virtue which I really don’t possess. I’ll rush though projects though results Will surely not impress. My sewing comes out crooked And my seams don’t seem to match. My baking skill are mediocre, Though I bake from scratch. You’d never want me as your chef; I clean, but things don’t shine And wrapping gifts has never been A special skill of mine. My ironing leaves creases And technology’s a bane. My plants all droop and getting rid Of clutter is a pain. But when I write, I’ll work each line Until the rhyme’s in sync. My pencil and eraser let me Change things as I think. Some people are obsessive ‘Bout so much, and all the time While as for me, that just applies To writing poems in rhyme.