The graceful swan so poised and true,
makes ballerinas cry and swoon;
a jumbo jet within the air,
with null resistant derriere.
But when dear cygnus comes to roost,
both feet and wings are Pas de deux,
while shrilling, honking, blowing flames,
a right old cockup on the Thames.
Poets today are lazy to rhyme,
too careless with meter, too rushed with each line.
Give me a verse with a well crafted phrase
and disperse with a curse all those dreary essays!
Adding a line-break does not create poetry;
those terse, broken phrases? Unintelligible vocally.
So get out your pen and play with the pace;
find the right word to fit the right space.
Suffer to be Beautiful
I don’t eat bread or chocolate cake,
in dinners and breakfasts I do not partake,
there’s cherry plum pudding cooled fresh on the sill,
it may as well sit there – to me it’s all swill.
I cannot remember the taste of dessert,
when I climb out my dress my ribs creak and they hurt,
I’m down three sizes to a minus 2,
I need to put cotton in the sides of my shoes.
I cry in my sleep for one last little bite,
a glass of tap water stays my appetite,
my lips have not tasted a real crème Brule,
in so long my taste buds have just withered away.
my doctor and mother share the same phobia –
that my skin will stretch tight and eventually tear.
I suffer and diet and look like a rake,
but oh! What a beautiful corpse I will make!