A clever design,
with words that will shine
a plot
Why care if I rhyme,
every other line,
or not?
Will you whinge and whine
as beats I combine,
boycott?

You stick up your nose,
exclaim “its not prose”
A joke
No rules to impose
so why can’t I pose
and stroke?
The quill is my rose,
my joy and my throes,
un-yoke.

Consonants will blend
as vowels transcend
with skill
Adjectives ascend,
all verbs are my friend,
a thrill
No need to amend
the voice I have penned,
be still.

J. Price