I haven't writ
In quite a bit.
So here I'll sit
And think on it.
I thunk about it
And I doubt it.
To write's a pain
And quite inane.
Darn my brain,
I'm quite insane.
I try to write
But have the blight.
I cannot write
And so, in spite
Of what I thunk
I'll only plunk
One word or two,
(no more than two)
Then say adieu.
So here's the words:
"Sacre bleu!"
Aaron, did I spell that right?
Or should I say,
To save the day,
"Oh golly, Dang!
Misspelled again!"
Dad I bet you had fun with that one.
ReplyDeleteI tried to do my own poem inspired from yours but I didn't make it very far.... It's for Danielle concerning a conversation we had.
ReplyDeleteIt ain't no picnic
without our cynic!
And who, pray, is the curmudgeon?
ReplyDeleteThe one who bludgeoned
Every word and every phrase
That passed your lips in days
Long past
Even when you had not asked
For criticism
Or solipsism.
Who corrected your grammar
Your spelling, your . . .
Oh heck. That's enough, already.
Twas I.
Oh fie!
Oh it absolutely twas you!
ReplyDelete...But that rhyming gene may skip generations...