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Scrabbling
Oh, what a poet I could be,
If it wasn't for Babslou93.
Each day new words come thick and fast,
Each one I think I'll make the last,
But no, I can't resist the lure,
I send a stonker right back to her.
Then back she comes with thirtyfive,
I strive to keep the game alive,
My paltry twenty she jumps on,
Sixty eight, where did that come from ?
I'm really stuck - I've got a Q,
Defeat is clearly now in view.
Resorting to strange words, it seems
Nothing can outwit her schemes.
My every little plot is thwarted,
I'm really feeling quite exhausted.
The end's in sight, a final flourish.
She's won the day. My game was rubbish.
And though I'd like my breath to catch,
No chance, she's after a rematch.
And so the hours are whiled away,
As urgent matters of the day
Are sidelined, but pleasant I agree
Is Scrabbling with Babslou93.
Copyright ©
Peter Rees
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