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.
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007
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