And here I am again, pretending I'm Louis MacNeice.
On First Looking Into a Rhyming Dictionary
How many verses hide here hesitating
Waiting impatient for their day to dawn;
Some wandering poet discombobulating
Their desolating fate to die unborn.
For here those poems are; they crouch in posse,
Their glossy locks attendant to the breeze.
At ease they lie like dogs until their flossy,
Bossy masters call them where they please.
The poets listen to the rhymes a-rustling
And bustling out of sight and out of mind,
Resigned to wring a meaning from the muscling,
And tussling with the magic words they find.
The poets know their rhymes are granted gratis,
To satisfy an ear that seeks for sound
Abounding in an interlacing lattice,
For that is where true poetry is found.
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