This noble thread hath been effaced
From the minds of those that with such grace
Have brought a grin to many a face.
Inelegant rhymes may be set beside -
What use rules? Stick them up the behind.
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Quite often, those who toil as poets find
That limitations grant a work more grace,
And though my compositions I efface,
'Tis true that, of the ink that I have spill’d,
The rhymes I find are with a beauty fill’d
Be those which are, by rules, the most constrain’d.
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And though my creativity felt drain’d
In recent weeks, or spent upon Badass
(That is to say Redoubtable, alas,
I miss somewhat the old games’ moniker,
And play a dirge upon harmonica) 
I now rejoice to see this thread revive
For doggerel like this keeps me alive.
And here I must agree with the Space Gryphon
And count myself among the number, if’n
Writing verse at all, preferring rules,
Though flexibility I grant within my schools
As helping flow and musicality.
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That’s how it goes, know what I’m sayin’, B?
We plot and scheme, toute suite upon the rhyme,
But strive to stay in step, in tune, in time.
No matter how our hearts become ensnared
We will not of this wretched thread be scared
As long as we combat obscurity.
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And though I find here some security
In meter most predictable and sure
I think our audience need not endure
Much more discussion 'pon the technical-
Ities of how we rhyme. 'Tis so banal!
Now hast thou seen the duel afoot within
Yon tavern, twixt the cube and space griffin?
I fear that lizard may intend some harm!
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Cold blooded he, who hath no charm,
The duel could prove the death of one,
Or two perhaps the tune may take,
But will we stop for child’s sake?
Or merely swill our bathtub gins
an tut tut about the Sax and Violins
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And so a season came, and so it went,
Our fancies on far Weatherby long spent.
And now midsummer has both come and gone
In this my hemisphere: the northern one.
'Tis hot as hell outside; dog days now reign.
O, rain! 'Twould be so welcome, summer rain!
The hour groweth late. I hie to bed.
A pillow briefly cool beneath my head.
The waning moon through open window gleams…
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…and finally an end to Night That Steams!
Three weeks hath pass’d since last I wrote some verse
Herein, and yet I feel no urge to curse;
Though matters not improv’d, they are not worse.
I drive a car. I do not ride in hearse.
My wife spake sweetly to me; was not terse.
I have fivescore crisp dollars in my purse.
(No millionaire, no William Randolph Hearst)
I shan’t complain, until I give thanks first
For being spared most of life’s troubles worst,
And suff’ring but the mildest form of thirst.
I’ll be back soon! I go to fetch a drink.
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The vigor of thy drink waylaid the famed,
our narrat-er, henceforth worn for the worse -
some nine days pass without a line of verse.
Yes, I rhymed “drink” with “drink”, and my meter,
well, it doth peter.
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I doubt that we become the lotus-eater,
And fail to write from simple apathy,
But rather our distracted sympathy
Has little time to spare for rhyming now.
When we no longer under burdens bow,
Perhaps this place of verse will thrive anew.
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I hope it do! Dear gods, I hope it do,
For entertainment vast I here acquire,
And to obtain more practice I aspire,
Since most of you possess vocabularies
Bound to stump and irk constabularies,
Landing us in dutch with Johnny Law
Who scratches head and mutters curses raw
As he hopes Lady Justice will agree
That we’ve cross’d o’er to illegality
Tho’ head nor tail of this thread he can’t make,
Yet stern offense at our words he doth take.
I’ve had my drink! And now to find some lunch.
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The absence of my mind irks me a bunch;
In winter, jackets help me bring my gear,
So that I never, ever need to fear
Forgetting something that I want to take.
In summer, though, my mind is e’er awake
And so I check my person to inquire
Whether I have each gadget I desire,
Whereas, if a device is left astray
From the coat pocket where it’s s’pposed to stay
I do not check to see if it was miss’d.
My point, I’ve dwelled on far too long, is this:
I wish I had my iPod here with me
Instead of where, at home, it sits to be
Updated with the latest songs I’ve bought.
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My friend, I think your problem here I spot
And twofold may it be, for first of all:
'Tis neither summer, nor doth icy pall
Of winter breathe a chill upon sunset.
For northern hemisphere, 'tis autumn yet.
Down south the buds of spring erupt in bloom
So heavy coat and shorts stay in your room.
Mayhap the iPod, filled with tunes galore,
Should live next to your keys, close by front door?
And second, may I say you show your age,
Perhaps, confessing, at this modern stage,
That songs you bought (not pirated nor stole
Nor downloaded from Limewire albums whole)
With hard-earned cash, like Gen-X sucker me?
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The bitter north is where I tend to be,
Where just two seasons deign to show their face:
The summer where the sun o’er head does blaze,
And winter, with its frigid winds and frost.
A month ago, the first leaves were not lost,
But shorts and t-shirts were the fit apparel
And now the temper of the air is sterile,
And even daylight not much warms the land.
All this I say that you may understand
Why wearing jackets is not by mere choice.
As for the music, long ago my voice
Did utter forth a vow that, should I choose
An album that I could not bear to lose,
And keep it on my side from day to day,
I’d find within my budget cash to pay
The artist for their work; it’s only fair.
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I find your ethics thus beyond compare.
Hey wow! Behold the time! Where has it gone?
Nine months hath pass’d twixt then and this day’s dawn.
We could belike have brought a babe to term,
To squalling life from mere conception’s germ!
But what the hell; we’re here, not dead, not yet,
So howzabout we kick this tête-à-tête
Back into gear, and flaunt our honeyed words?
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If words you want, than words you shall have.
Applesauce, barleycorn, cornicopia, dingleberry
Earthworm, Fastenal, gargoyle, happenstance
Inglorious, Johnson, kleptomaniac, leper
Mincemeat, nincompoop, oscillation, partisanship
Queers, Rapscallions, strongmen, terminators
Unilever, veliociraptor, wombat, xylophones
Yankee, zebra.
These are your words, use them with care.
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Ahem. Not one of them rhymes with “turds.”
Not one.
(plus “cornucopia” has a U)
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The form’s iambic pattern’s missing, too.
I think Wisconsin Platt skipped the OP.
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Surds.
The Necromancer of this thread, that’s me!
I hope you all are well, still rhyming words
With better mates than made up things like “surds.”
(I cast a disapproving eye at Dave
Who surely can do better if he’s brave!)
So what’s been new these last thirty-two moons?
I hear Will Smith and Chris Rock made like goons,
We found an elderly new President,
We’ve new women on SCOTUS resident
(Though one is not sworn into office yet
And t’other one is merely Satan’s pet),
And oh yes! There’s a new/old war afoot
As authoritarianism doth take root
In ways not seen since mine own misspent yout’.
(I think I’ll cease this Current Events toot;
This thread is meant to merely be a Hoot!)
So anyway, you poets still alive?
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