"Thank you, Carol," Julie said,
blushing fifteen shades of red.
Jeepers creepers, Julie thought,
wondering,
What have I wrought?
"Thank you, Bugsy," Julie wrote,
gasping through her gagging throat.
(Maybe it was only snorting.
Noisy business, this cohorting.)
"Thank you, Michael," Julie typed,
tears of mirth discreetly wiped.
"Hope you haven't placed your bets!
I stay veiled, as do my threats."
"Thank you, Brian," Julie posted,
after Emily had coasted.
("Note to self," she paused to write,
"Looks like
black's this season's
white.")
"Thank you, Marion," came next
in the course of Julie's text.
"If you're not chionophilic*,
watching
Idol sounds idyllic."
"Henry Quince,
merci," wrote Julie,
"Louis Quinze was speaking truly
of the Olympic centrifuge:
Aprés moi, l'idée luge.***
Julie Stoner
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FOOTNOTES:
----------------------------
*chionophilic = fond of snow***
**"After me, the concept of a Spandex-clad person hurtling blindly down a bobsled run while people ring cowbells--both for no apparent purpose."
***Handy tip!
![](http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif)
If you suspect that your verse may be rhyme-driven, ask yourself this question: "Am I coining new words for line-end positions?"
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