Dropped some verse here for you to peruse.
And please! Don't let me hear any boos.
I worked my poor brain down to the bone
to create these poems for you alone.
So just pretend ~ if they don't amuse.
When I find myself beginning to write
on a topic that is just too erudite,
I quickly throw in the towel,
with an unfeigned avowal
that frankly, I'm just not that bright.
Poetry Soup says I'm an American Poet.
But, we all know that that is rot.
I may be a rhymist, a card, or a funster,
an antic, a clown, or a punster,
a trickster, a wag, or a bombaster,
a prankster, a hack, or a poetaster.
But an American poet? ~ Certainly not!
I remember my old English teacher once saying to me:
"In the mind of every unstudious, would-be poet,
real poetry might be swirling around, but they wouldn't know it,
cuz instead of learning, they're always just grasping at straws,
and thereby repeating the very same flaws
that makes every other unstudious, would-be poet ~ blow it."
Don't I know it.
Why do I prefer the limerick format?
The limerick is a verse of fun
much-loved by just about everyone.
With a ton of sly puns,
and a last line that stuns,
for fun, it simply can't be outdone.
Why did I stop writing?
My brain finally ran out of verse.
And, no, I don't see that as a curse.
It just means that from now on
the conclusion is forgone ~
I won't ever write anything worse.
I just received the Soup life-time achievement award
for prefabricating a soup the entire world can afford.
It’s made of bits of tripe and thin slices of bull,
and just one sip can make any hungry belly full.
Hope my showing off like this isn't too untoward.
What else you wanna know? Email me.