|Can this poem find no reader, hence it’s tossed?|
These scrambled lines don’t hide my ignorance
When finding verse on topics rare, I’m lost
I sort them quickly, making poets wince.
I render hence the fact, I’m just a bot
The truth be told, it’s clear my work’s not Zen
Okay, the truth is harsh, I kid you not
Iambic verse has rules and guides my pen.
But early versions hence my scripts expose
Bad luck, I cannot rhyme your strange entry
Perhaps one day my verse will smell of rose
My passion hence, you see, is cranking glee.
My sonnets suffer hence from you, my foe,
You test, you prod, and I do feel your blow!