Poetry Scurvy

I am not worthy:

I suffer from poetry scurvy!

Too many times

I have forsaken the rhymes

That to me are like limes.

I come out in blotches… and rashes… splotches and spots…

If I don’t write, and recite, poetry… lots!

It’s like a maddening disease,

I cough and I sneeze…

Give me some poetry, please!

Read to me of the Ancient’s Rime,

Or, give me, but world enough and time

Then this shakiness, lady, would be no crime,

For I could pen a line or two,

And dedicate my verse to you,

Jot a Limerick, neat and quick,

Or create for you

A perfectly good Haiku –

That would surely do the trick!

But, as it is, I’m fairly sure

My fevered brow will dare no more

To put down words for others’ pleasure;

Buried deep is my lyrical treasure.

No ‘X’ marks the place;

No map does show a single trace

Of where I lost the cursed sense

That I garnered from innocence and experience.

And if, mayhap, you chance upon

The ‘monkey’s paw,’, ‘King Alfred’s Scone’

When out one day, not drowning, but walking

Or some other such-like accursed thing.

Then beware the Jabberwock, my son,

And don’t gaze upon the Bandersnatch,

Or else it’s likely that a poeticious disease you will catch.

My malady is getting me down a tad;

My muse is confused ; my ballad, sad;

I seem to have lost the ‘whatever’ I had.

I know I’ve committed crimes against rhymes; I’ve done my time,

Unlearned the rules, over-reached my prime, misused the tools

That a poet should care for; given up the reason, the why and the wherefore

Art thou, Romeo? Is this a doggerel that I see before me?

Not a Handel, just a rag-time band!

All I hope and pray is you understand;

Under-hand, I leave you now,

When my germs have transferred, I’ll take my bow.

I’ll pass the buck, loan the muse;

Now you can bemoan the poet’s blues.