I’ve reached a point where I see rhyme
With meter neat, in perfect time,
And up my nose, it goes, I s’pose;
Eight beats in quatrain – over-chose?
And yet, in irony sublime,
The ladder’s here, so up I climb.
How sweet the scent, with rose still rose?
The poet hopes the reader knows.
No, that’s not true; I’m in my prime;
To weight a reader’s thoughts – a crime.
I write alone, in verse or prose;
Enjoy it, if you predispose.
So there it is, in eights and fours;
Now broken rhyme scheme, zut alors!
Count syllables when rules there be,
But when unfettered,
I’m Just Me.