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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.

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