I’ve always been amazed at how people manage to write poetry, especially poetry that rhymes. And I’ve tried too. A million times. But somehow, my rhymes just don’t work. And here are a couple that are just that. Hollow, artificial, meaningless, contrived, altogether worthless. No life in them, basically…
Every night at nine
Recklessly do I pine
For a chance with thee to dine.
In exchange, what would I not give:
Only all that can be called mine.
And thus, gallantly did I strive
To write nine
Of these completely shallow lines.
‘Tis not for my pleasure, but thine.
Her name was Rose.
Her sweet smile framed by a snub nose,
She was the very personification of sucrose.
Of that she was to me, an overdose.
Now she’s gone. To where, no one knows.
I find myself staring at my toes
Whenever I’m feeling too morose.
Now that you’ve seen my pathetic attempts at rhyming, take a look at what Eminem can do:
Then I got up and ran to the janitor’s storage booth
Kicked the door hinge loose and ripped out the four inch screws
Grabbed some sharp objects, brooms, and foreign tools
“This is for every time you took my orange juice,
or stole my seat in the lunchroom and drank my chocolate milk.
And to wind up today’s post, here’s a joke that I came up with today:
What does a Malayali mother call her son, who happens to be a budding artist?
Monet *Ba dum tss* (A rudimentary knowledge of Malayalam is essential to get this joke.)