Thursday, April 19, 2007
A pear-shaped cat quarrels with his muse
A feline of bounteous girth,
I surveyed my backyard’s barren earth.
When I set it to rhyme,
It was less than sublime.
What, you expected Wordsworth?
The tulips, frost nipped in the bud.
But the wandering chive
Had managed to thrive
At least something wasn’t a dud.
With which I continually quarrel.
While I stalk pantherlike
Inspiration may strike.
Meanwhile, my verse is but doggrel.
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