I once kissed the Blarney Stone
and must have swallowed a lepruchaun
because i caught the rhyming syndrome
like turretts of great irish bards
I think in verse
and while its terse
it makes a point
even if out of joint
i throw a few noses
in space. Grace or a curse
I don't know what's worse,
that thoughts come in iambic
slop or not having a thought at all.
Perhaps its lineage or legacy
from great writers in geneology
or perhaps ancient DNA,
from shores of emerald sheep huts
covered in moss. It comes
with the freckles and carrot ruddy hair
my apologies to faint and faire,
I tried to subdue it, but it keeps coming out
even when i shut my mouth
my fingers dance like marionettes
in siloettes in a french country fair.
Oh dear.