I once wrote with great anger,

Four verses, no longer,

Of total nonsense and gibberish,

Not knowing that they would come to flourish.


Here they are,

Read them through,

But be warned, you,

That they’re going to leave behind a scar.


“I know not what to say,

I know not, try as I may.

For the song that I have to sing,

Will turn beggars into kings.”


I never could have imagined,

That those four verses I wrote with chagrin,

Would one day become what I would call,

My favourite-est of them all.


Poems are funny, poets even more so,

For they bounce and waggle and glow,

And wiggle and gurgle and flow,

Without beginning or end, without having anywhere to go.


Poems are deep, limericks are not,

Say the connoisseurs with all the swagger they’ve got.

Kind sires, I disagree, and I am suspicious

That your arguments are entirely specious.



There it is, I’ve done my best,

To weave a story, albeit in jest,

With words in sequence, thoughts in disarray,

To rest this poem I lay.


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