A writer of rhyme struggles not to
Rhyme as he would on other verse
And paper and screen are the stranger for it
But others, wiser, say it be so.
And so the world is on its head
Whats right to write is wrong
There may come a day… all too soon I fear
When decreed as restrictive is correct spelling.
And I the poet with builders ffingers
Yes, there I go again!
Shall find my efforts feted as avante gard
Or something by fools who hate normality.
Did I feel free made free from rhyme?
No, my creativity is restricted
For fools who if driving would
Drive on the right to say they are original.
And the resultant car crash they would blame
On all but themselves for the crash
They do so with poetry, with their free verse
And being Anti-Midas… turn Gold to mere Shite.