Since David has sinned first by posting one of his own, here's an old poem of mine that I've always liked because of its rhymes. (I know it's bad form to admit to liking one of one's own poems.) I suspect it's too British for American readers:
MISS POSTLETHWAITE’S DOWNFALL
Water colours and reading
were Miss Postlethwaite’s passion
and in her own fashion
she had taste and breeding
“My dear father always”
her usual beginning
“Advised against sinning”
and lowered her gaze.
She cycled each morning
to open her shop
a convenient stop
for needs without warning.
Milk, eggs, stamps and pencils
and biscuits of all sorts
equipment for ball sports
and cardboard utensils.
The cad you expected
in the form of a vicar
managed to trick her
then promptly defected
Her shop gone and maybe
a worse fate in store
she courageously bore
a fatherless baby.
“My dear father always”
she said to her lawyer
“was a trusty employer
of the suitable phrase”
“And had Papa lasted
despite his bad stutter
I’m sure he would utter
the epithet bastard.”
[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited January 11, 2008).]
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