I composed this poem on a rainy evening.
My friends said: "This is not poetry at all!"
Dad, too, was not the least convinced:
"Bad piece of work, my son. Improve."
And mother was particularly scathing:
"Bland and pointless. Drop it in the bin."
There was no hope in profs' words either:
"Care to hear my say? This is pure stool."
"But why?" I cried, "How's this not poetry?"
"That is quite evident", they all answered,
"A poem has a rhyme scheme, young man.
ABAB, AABB, ABBA, ABABB -- you name it.
Show us the rhymers in your - er - poem."
"So that was yer charge, eh?" said an irate I.
"Then 'tisn't my fault, sirs and ma'ams, that
When a poem stares you in the face, ye
Can't tell it is one. Bad 'nough ye didn't
Grant my piece its poetry status. Worse --
All ye pundits found it self-satisfying to
Call it a worthless frill and brand me a fake.
Worst -- ye all failed to notice that the
First words in each pair of lines rhyme!"
My friends said: "This is not poetry at all!"
Dad, too, was not the least convinced:
"Bad piece of work, my son. Improve."
And mother was particularly scathing:
"Bland and pointless. Drop it in the bin."
There was no hope in profs' words either:
"Care to hear my say? This is pure stool."
"But why?" I cried, "How's this not poetry?"
"That is quite evident", they all answered,
"A poem has a rhyme scheme, young man.
ABAB, AABB, ABBA, ABABB -- you name it.
Show us the rhymers in your - er - poem."
"So that was yer charge, eh?" said an irate I.
"Then 'tisn't my fault, sirs and ma'ams, that
When a poem stares you in the face, ye
Can't tell it is one. Bad 'nough ye didn't
Grant my piece its poetry status. Worse --
All ye pundits found it self-satisfying to
Call it a worthless frill and brand me a fake.
Worst -- ye all failed to notice that the
First words in each pair of lines rhyme!"