I now propose some small, diverting game,
One that I hope will prove more fun than lame.
A thread in verse! Like Shakespeare used to write!
With wand’ring themes, but rhyme and meter tight.
Pentameter iambic is the form,
And rhyming couplets here should be the norm.
The challenge shall be for each player to
Add just two lines; not one, nor three, but two.
The first must rhyme with what came just before.
The second one may be whate’er. 'Tis for
The following contributor to choose
A rhyme to match, else then the game they lose.
Exempli gratia: my post ends with “was.”
So now another poster answers “Cuz,
Yer poem’s wack, and kinda sucky, bro.”
Of course, their line begins not with “Cuz,” no,
It starts with “So.” You get my meaning here?
I think so. Have we yet run out of beer?
Oh, damn. We’ve started already, have we?
Indeed we have. So now let’s try to see
What bards among us we might chance to find?
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And this is how I try to just unwind,
Without a drop to drink this Tuesday Eve.
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How nice! A tangled, rhyming, skein we weave,
That will, perhaps, divert our thoughts from woe.
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That was, indeed, my hope! May it be so,
For we are weary of this woe and grief.
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I do not wish to vanish like a thief:
I shall now take my parting for this night.
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Sleep well, my friend. Let not your thoughts alight
’pon visions foul while in the land of Nod.
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Nay, rather may a merciful, kind God
With baritone and breathy voice sing “Rest.”
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And now I’ve risen from my pillow’d nest,
To find myself wond’ring what today brings.
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Pestilence, earthquakes and the death of kings?
Perhaps thou shouldst return to sweet repose.
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Nay, dwell not on the ever-present woes,
But gaze in wonder at the joys life brings.
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An optimist I am! Hold dear the things
That vex the President and cause him stress.
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Would’st upset Trump and cause him to regress
To state infantile? Thou art most unkind.
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To not upset him, I think you will find,
Would mean to be much meaner to the rest.
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But let us not put tempers to the test!
'Tis warm and sunny here. I must needs smile.
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It’s cold and dark in our benighted isle.
No sign of any darling buds from May
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Alas! For warmer climes for thee I pray,
And meantime hope thou can’st share in our joy.
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Dross values here: the tribe feeds on trolls’ ploy;
Sail set: Acheron! Cocytus! Exeunt.
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Nay, people are not Hell, but symbiont,
No matter what the playwright Sartre says.
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The man had no gray matter 'neath his fez!
But lo, 'tis midnight! Who comes next to sing
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A line or two? (O, who’s fool’d by this thing?
'Tis two and only two.) Turns out it’s me.
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