Some Things are Beyond Rhyming
If I read one more bloody poem which
Rhymes move with love,
Or prove with love,
Or cove with love,
Or some such non-concording glitch –
I swear I’ll tear it from the page,
My critique serving to assuage
My poet’s rage.
Each lazy half- and quarter-rhyme,
With stubbly chin and flaccid lust,
Just can’t be arsed, it’s marking time;
It’s only there because it must –
On speaking terms, but only just.
And then they have the rough-faced gall
To drag in love among their ranks,
To mangle with their petty pranks
And gen’ral lack of wherewithal –
For love, as ev’ry poet knows,
Has few bedfellows of a pair;
It won’t be shunted into rows
Or sold-off cheap in shabby fare.
Don’t leave your love where rhymes rehearse,
But let it flow throughout your verse –
For love is never trite or neat,
And rare those words that sound as sweet.