Rhyming words is not that tough,
Poets are mad they always laugh.
All they do is blink and think,
And chew their pens till they stink.
They look at birds and trees and sky,
Some lonely creatures with greaves of sigh!
They don’t bath or comb their hairs,
They weep in dreams but laugh in mares.
I tell you that the Poets are mad,
The more they think, the more they had.
Rivers, flowers, and all that nice,
They talk to birds and dance with mice.
They love to love and love to live,
Give to get and get to give.
They write at nights and sleep through days,
To make the world a better place.
They wink at stars and jump on cloud,
Scare the pilots then laugh out loud.
They tickle the cow in the Milky Way,
Then dive at once on a stack of hay,
I know a poet, who flies in night,
He still doesn’t know this blog I write.
If flying that high makes a crime,
Then I’m not a poet and I can’t rhyme.