My poor poems, neither rhyme nor scan, a scandal be damn,
as grand grammarians grumble and crotchety critics cry tumbrels,
while trendy topic pickers poke fun at one so dumb, as so nice and precise
mistresses (or masters) of the art pull me prettily apart; I just go my way -
smile, sigh, ponder and pray that the Muses dear will inspire me without fear.
Categories:
tumbrels, poetry,
Form: Free verse