I think I am a poet
I talk to all in rhyme
The babblings of my fevered mind
Are like this all the time.
I think upon a subject
and who can take the blame?
No matter what the line is
The last word sounds the same
As a one that's been said previous.
It can get really hard,
When one is talking rocket science,
Then you mention bread and lard
So all you people out there,
Who talk in in finest prose.
Pity this humble poet,
Whose rhymes get up your nose.
[Tony Matthews 2002]
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