The Contented Rhymer

I will never be a poet for even I can clearly see, my words are plain (I know it) and a little singsongy. My head’s as filled with adjectives, As is my pen with ink, though I write with all I have to give most times my poems stink. I do not know the difference betwixt haiku and senyru, (lucky, writing’s not my sustenance, It’s just what I like to do.) Yet here I sit with pen in hand considering my plight; I need to (oops) or get off the can for it seems the time is right. just plain white bread (can’t control it,) I know my poetry’s just okay, so since I’ll never be Poet Laureate The contented rhymer I shall stay.