The End

Alas I find it quite perverse, I only write in rhyming verse, the habit has become a curse It’s time I though of quitting I’m very envious of those, who effortlessly turn out prose, that without rhyme just some how flows Their skill is unremitting. Even if I take my time, my poems somehow end as rhyme, becomes a literary crime To all who are discerning At spelling I will always fail, my grammar too is very frail, therefore I feel I’m bound to fail, To satisfy my yearning Though I try with all my might, to make my poetry sound right I simply am not erudite. enough for inspiration Therefore it's very plane to see, the thing that is obstructing me, I lack perspicacity I have no education I should have listened more at school, stopped behaving like a fool, my pen could have become my tool To fulfil my ambition To write with style and panache, in literature to cut a dash, instead of which I come down crash Trembling with contrition Now it’s time to turn to drink, and put away my pen and ink, give up the quest that makes me think That I could really write No more to comment on the news, giving vent to biased views, or writing of the global blues It’s time I said good night.