I write poetry like a clown needs a business degree: badly.
I rhyme in my poems like the wing flaps of a flea: constantly.
But I like poems that rhyme because they’re like dogs in bowties: classy.
And while rhythm and rhyme is difficult for some,
it’s infected me like radioactivity and Madame Curie, salt in the dead sea, leaves in hot tea, brass in old keys, green in snow peas, money in trustees, hummus’ chickpeas, and like the white in birch trees: