A Cornish Pastiche
My poetry is crusty on the outside
and lacking any meaty substance on the inside;
whereas the coating of rhymes,
although flakey at times,
does bear the taking of a second bite.
At night, my words cry out for perusal;
they yearn to be read in the dark;
I try and make things up,
and use all the tricks of the poetic trade…
but I still fill the cup
with warm lemonade.
However, with my poems,
a meal deal you can have;
with a pastiche that is cold,
a side of leftover words that are sad to behold,
and a drink that attracts flys and wasps
(recently flown in from one Stow-on-the-Wold).
I could say more,
but am nervous and unsure,
as to how to end this—