I languish when my lines are lean.
(You poet pals know what I mean.)
The pen I push, the whole world uses;
where’s fairy dust and touch of muse’s?
I suffer when my words won’t rhyme.
As if I’d carried out a crime,
like cruel assassin stabbing Caesar
or crass and cowardly appeaser.
I worry when my verse won’t flow,
and poet’s passion will not glow.
John Keats said poems should flow freely,
like streams, sun’s rays or blood, ideally.
I freak out when my stanzas stink
of stagnant sweat or icky ink.
Like contraband, so shit to smuggle,
a rhymester’s life’s a sodding struggle!