In poetry there are some gnomes,
they sit in silence in their homes
crank out in duplicating mode
what they consider Poets’ Lode.
Comes by at dawn a wise old man
“Good Day to you, the name is Stan,
would you consider my advice,
I’ve thought about this matter thrice,
if you would take up badminton
or play with the old gramophone,
learn golf or take a sauna bath
or even study the New Math,
you’d cut the time you spend to write
your poems, most of which are shite.
I say, Madame, think quality
it may infuse some liberty
into your spirits and your po(e)ms,
and did you say your name was Holmes?
Friday Thoughts
