My sister wants my poems to rhyme,
To write blank verse is just a crime,
“It isn’t poetry if it doesn’t rhyme, ”
She says, and really must keep time,
By scanning line by line.
Yet it would be as much a crime,
To make it rhyme, yes, every time,
And truth to say I see no point in trying.
As apple blossom scents the Springtime day,
With sultry summer on the way,
I have a more melodious tune to play.
The lambs have gambolled, swallows here,
Those bees are buzzing, never fear,
That sun is shining, sky is clear.
Let’s walk the forest, breathe the air,
Then snuggle down in that comfy chair.
Paul Butters
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-51/
