I thought I would give you a poem today
On this lackluster Tuesday morn,
In hopes I might make your whole outlook less gray,
Or even feel like you're reborn.
Unfortunately, my descriptions are weak,
As is my grasp of metaphor.
Oh, you'll be left wanting if fine verse you seek;
My skills in this realm are quite poor.
But if all you care for is rhythm and rhyme,
Perhaps things will turn out alright.
For instance, it's easy to rhyme "rhyme" with "time."
Oh, who am I kidding? That's trite.
It's boring! It's horrible! Are we agreed?
This venture was doomed from the start.
I've nothing to say; you've no reason to read.
This isn't a poem. It's art.
If you were actually hoping for poetry, my sincere apologies.1
1 There once was a footnote named Shorty
Whose syllables numbered near forty.
It didn't make sense,
And without recompense,
It ended. Would you like some more tea?