Poetry’s a silly thing,
It makes a poet sigh.
Sometimes he can make it sing,
And sometimes he runs dry.
But still he tries, and yet again,
Through blood and sweat and tears,
And if it won’t come out his pen,
He’ll squeeze it from his ears.
So there it lies now, in his book,
A little worse for wear.
A grim and pouting kind of look,
Comes back to meet his stare.
Soon enough they’ll come to terms,
As providence decides.
The rhymes rebel. The meter squirms,
But presently subsides.
And someday, in a little while,
Creator and created
Will look back with a little smile
On the beauty they dictated.