An Hour’s Amusement


This poem is a whim, born as I type.
It's an unformed, premature, wailing thing,
struggling for breath and aspiring for tripe,
cast out by an unfit mother's musing.
Lacking meter, it cannot stand alone
but pretends to be whole-hoping for rhyme
and syllable count to act as its bone,
duping eyes long-practiced in verse's clime.
Destined to be quickly disregarded,
it refuses to be finished with me
until the final thought is discarded
within the couplet lines, haphazardly.
Poets, just like a cat's owners, should know:
Humans never actually run the show.

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