Rhyme And MePublished by Susan on 08/10/2003 (3136 reads)
Said I to Rhyme: "I'm sick of you,
To death you're sadly overdue.
I'm weary of your tinny chimes
I've stuck more than ten thosand times.
And yet I know each stale refrain
I'll use again and yet again;
Or else, if desperate I be,
I'll take to making verse that's free.
But that's so easy to compose . . .
Ah, no! I guess I'll have to stick
To lines which have an end that click."
Said Rhyme to me: "Oh, Bard ungrate,
To me you owe your lucky fate.
And all you have and all you are,
Your yacht, your villa and your car.
Your wife's tiara and her mink
Are hers because your verses clink.
If you indulged in stanzas blank,
You'd have no money in the bank.
I reckon, Pal, your happy time
Is based upon the rock of Rhyme.
Despite your words so worn and stale
You dine on caviar and quail,"
Wherat I hung my head in shame,
Of brash banality to blame . . .
Yet go on jingling just the same.
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