You may assume that you are right
If this verbage seems erudite,
But past the splendorous facade
The verisimilitude is not so odd.
Betwixt this linguist’s obfuscation
Surmise his true preoccupation;
To force the same phonemic core
Between line past and line before.
There are those who tell me
That a poem that rhymes
There are those who say
A poem that rhymes
Is of the devil
Or the patriarchy
Or “kind of stringent, don’t you think?”
Their tellings and sayings
Spool around the cellar
Of an ivory tower
Whose black horses
And cakes which are a lie
No longer echo
In the halls of our great uncles.
Confusion is their currency.
I do not understand this poem.
Neither do you.
I just wrote it to show ’em,
Figuratively, who’s who.
Whenever that old writer’s block
Come upon my head to knock
You get a poem like yesterday’s
After which poetic guilt
Covers me like the Nile’s silt
And I feel like I need to raise
So I wrote this poem today
In my un-artistic way
To compensate for the shortness of
By challenging my self
(Though I didn’t do very welf)
By rhyming every ending line
The Daily Travesty published one “poem” every day.
Tune in tomorrow for the poem,
“I’m sorry for apologizing, and this time I rhyme with ‘orange.'”