By now a tired theme, but once again
I've got no time to write a sonnet well;
therefore, I must commit the poet's sin
of crafting sloppy verse. But what the hell.
No batter hits a homer every time
he steps up to the plate to face a pitch.
Just so with meter, imagery, and rhyme:
sometimes you've got to fudge the ol' sumbitch.
If I'd an ivory tower, I'd take me thence
and view the kingdom from aloft; my quill
would dance in fairy rings around the sense,
and draw from words and beats the dreams I'd will.
But I've got chores, a dinner to be cooked,
a wife to please--so you can see, I'm booked.
No comments:
Post a Comment