Alphabet Soup
Any fool can bake a poem,
Far too many do.
I was once a fool myself
Who thought he’d have a chew.
My fruits were mushy, overripe,
My verse a sickly brew:
With plums that withered into prunes
In scrag-and-gristle stew.
Any fool can bake a poem,
Ain’t no hill of beans.
I was once a fool myself
With burnt and stodgy means
But ev’ry sour mouthful will
Yet teach us fine cuisines:
We cannot dine on peaches till
We finish up our greens.
Rhyming Couplets 