March 29, 2021
Be it Seuss or Silverstein,
Rhyming had its place.
A goose taking dramamine,
Flying around in its space.
On a page they’d write a poem,
Their stories were very cute,
For an age we’d recite their koans,
Without worry or parachute.
And in the end, there’d be a twist,
Something to make us gasp,
And we’d spend our time to get the gist,
Something that made us laugh.
Where the sidewalk ends you might,
See, (oh,) the places you will go!
Let’s take stock and pretend tonight,
That we can hope to break the mold.
Rhyming verse has become out of date,
Something only found in song,
Writing terse is just not fun as of late,
Disgusting and bound to be wrong.
All these words so contrived,
Sometimes not making sense,
I believe it’s worth one more try,
I’ll claim it’s self-defense.
If Silverstein and Seuss could succeed,
Shouldn’t I have a go?
Feeling mean and obtuse, should I concede?
(Really, who would even know?)
So I’ll spend the night at home again,
Trying to be clever and make it rhyme,
In the end I’ll write this poem, my friend,
Writing whatsoever, and… oh, never mind.