Poethrill
Poethrill
What shall I liken poetry to?
Perhaps, juveniles' imbroglio?
Nah, Poetry is a man,
Hailing from a renonwed clan.
His regalia is the message,
Which the muse whispers to the sage.
His footwear is rhyme,
Mending, pruning time.
The cap resting on his head,
Like the crown on cackoo's head,
Is the kleptomaniac meter:
Feet, and Iambic pentameter.
Dressing him in such distinct taste:
Surpassing his jealous mate.
And you poets who adorn him only with regalia,
Consider how he look without a footwear and cap.
Poetry's mouthpiece.
©2018
Josh Berry
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