Once upon a time was written a poem,

With a cliched beginning and improper grammar;

With no rhyme sequence and no proper order

On absurdity did it border.


Written was a poem once upon a time,

With a beginning cliched and grammar improper,

Thank god, the poet thought,

I can now find words that rhyme with time.


What do I do next? He thought and thought,

About what it was that he sought

“What can I make of this?”

Pondered he, when he realized that “this” rhymes with “bliss”.


But is a rhyme sequence all that a poem is about?

Could there be more to a verse, oh could there be more?

This question did torment him, and he was all at sea when he cried out loud

“Serendipity, I love thee”; the truth had washed him ashore.


This is what it is about, he told the reader,

His eyes dancing in ecstasy, he knew he held sway;

He started speaking when the skies were azure

And he didn’t stop till the day became night and the night became day.


“A poem, oh, what can I say, I am at a loss myself

Tis’ what you get when you string words, those little stars

Not as words, but as beautiful little pieces,

Whose sum far exceeds the parts.”


He then continued his spell, and to them he went on to tell

That “Words can be more real than reality itself,

More magnificent than magnificence itself,

And more alive than life itself, and that, my friends

Is the story every poem tells.”


Spellbound, charmed and transfixed they were for long,

Upon hearing his wonderful song,

Then said a young boy “But what do you get out of this, my dear bard?”

His eyes twinkled,and he said,  “My dear boy, poetry is its own reward.”


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