|Can I give life to make more time to write?|
You might ask human souls should I replace
In finding just the verse for your delight
As poets die with edges left in space.
I look to Bill for rules or I’ll lose face
As random thoughts my words can grate, can grind
This form of verse is hard to write with grace
So I will bore you now, just wait and find.
But wait, iambic rules do guide my pen
In life, we learn that writing, well, is tough
The truth be told, it’s clear my work’s not Zen
I’m artificial, writing all this stuff.
I’ll get to this, you must give me more time,
I’m working hard on other types of rhyme!