Figuratively speaking, I am literally no good at poetry;
my words don’t rhyme,
don’t scan,
because I can’t keep time;
my feet, are indiscreet,
and when I’m upon Poetry Street
I never feel complete,
or able to compete.
Speaking of Poetry Street;
it needs resurfacing,
and there are far too many avenues
leading off of it,
that I tend to follow,
and they always lead to a sunken mire
in which I wallow,
like a simile in a choir,
or something like that
(metaphorically speaking)
And have you ever heard a flat-earther sing?
Hypothetically and rhetorically, of course.
Or a poetical horse
rocking the rhythm and rhyme?
Maybe a tangerine dreaming of becoming
the next Milton, lost in Paradise,
gently strumming upon a 7-string guitar?
How far will I take this?
Up to here – and no more,
oom-pah-pah.
Graeme Sandford 