Today I have to write with rhyme
Which is something I do all the time.
Honestly today’s style seems a crime
And likelihood I’ll shirk it off is prime.
Right about now it’s bedtime
And to write a poem now would begrime
The name I’ve made in my climb.
Especially now in this clime
Where we can grow neither lemon nor lime
And the winter winds often rime
It’s bad to stay up late and I’m
Beginning to feel sick as the clocks chime
Of having to rhyme all the time.
In my pocket I found a dime.
My thoughts, you think, are getting sublime
As I make sounds that resemble enzyme
And construct a poem from this slime;
The struggle reminds me of a mime
And though this is an enjoyable pastime
I’m putting an end to this despicable rhyme.
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