“It’s no poem without rhymes!”
Amaiya, neighbor friend, avowed.
“I have learned it now in school,
Poems rhyme, and that’s the rule!
So none of yours in Illinois Times
Are truly verse, it’s not allowed.
Muffet, tuffet, Jill and hill,
You can rhyme yours if you will!”
Amaiya, love, a gift for you:
I’ll try to make a rhyme that’s true.
I don’t claim my verses great,
Most don’t rhyme, it’s their sad fate.
Poets who have bees in bonnets
May write triolets and sonnets.
They’ll be better, don’t you know it.
I’m just not that good a poet.
Amaiya, neighbor friend, avowed.
“I have learned it now in school,
Poems rhyme, and that’s the rule!
So none of yours in Illinois Times
Are truly verse, it’s not allowed.
Muffet, tuffet, Jill and hill,
You can rhyme yours if you will!”
Amaiya, love, a gift for you:
I’ll try to make a rhyme that’s true.
I don’t claim my verses great,
Most don’t rhyme, it’s their sad fate.
Poets who have bees in bonnets
May write triolets and sonnets.
They’ll be better, don’t you know it.
I’m just not that good a poet.
