An author writes a fairy tale,
Perhaps about a gypsy who fell,
Or Maybe a witch who cast a spell,
But definitely not a rhyming tale.
A writer gives us all a fright
Close the curtains and dim the lights
A killer lurks for other’s spite
But no rhyme is in my sight.
A musician sings loving verse
And though the girl has a lovely purse
His verse is terse
Any rhyming is scarce.
Any artist who desires to talk
Must never in his paintings balk
The path of despair must he walk
But rhymes will he never stalk.
So why, of all the arts
Deep and down their souls and hearts
Must the poet seek words and parts
Of the rhymes that make the poet’s art?
Perhaps about a gypsy who fell,
Or Maybe a witch who cast a spell,
But definitely not a rhyming tale.
A writer gives us all a fright
Close the curtains and dim the lights
A killer lurks for other’s spite
But no rhyme is in my sight.
A musician sings loving verse
And though the girl has a lovely purse
His verse is terse
Any rhyming is scarce.
Any artist who desires to talk
Must never in his paintings balk
The path of despair must he walk
But rhymes will he never stalk.
So why, of all the arts
Deep and down their souls and hearts
Must the poet seek words and parts
Of the rhymes that make the poet’s art?
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