I have an affliction;
It’s quite an addiction.
The complaint is rhyme
Which I write all the time.
It’s very sad
And is driving me mad.
I can’t stop rhyming,
Nor measuring timing
I’d like to write prose
But can’t, I suppose.
These trite little verses
Emerge like curses.
So neat on the page
They cause me to rage.
I’m not sure
That I’ll find a cure;
And write what I want
In any font.
So if you read this
Don’t just dismiss
But understand
That in England
A rhymester like me
Is not actually free,
But is tied up in verse
And needs a nurse
To untangle these rhymes
And treat them as crimes.
It’s no good.
I don’t write as I should.
I can’t prevent
The words I resent.
It’s absolute Hell.
Have you been there as well?
Is there a way out?
This I doubt.
At least I can now
Send this anyhow
To the wide earth
In the hope of some mirth.
The truth I owe it.
I am not a poet.
A rhymester I am
And yes, I like jam!


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