The Poem What I Wrote. (Sorry Ernie)

I said I’d tell a poem

To this august crowd,

Then I had to find one,

And say it right out loud.

Would it be by Shakespeare,

Milton, Poe or Keats.

It had to by someone

To keep you in your seats.

Words of yellow daffodils,

Or maybe love or war,

Of youth or age or beauty;

I hope I’m not a bore.

The modern type of poem?

That doesn’t ever rhyme.

That seems to go on for ever,

With no punctuation or break for breath or sense of rhythm but drones on in a monotonous way that is only understandable in the strange mind of the author.

But no, you’re stuck with this one,

Not a massive work of art.

But it’s good enough for you lot!

So with that, I’ll now depart.