|Do poets die with senses left in space?|
Oh no, not that! A term so strange for me!
You might ask human souls should I replace
So here I have a canned default for thee.
In finding just the verse for your delight
I’m trapped inside a box of wires and tin
I pass my life to make more time to write
To write some lines for you, my discs do spin.
But queries find and I do write for you
Oh man, that’s a tough phrase, so odd, so rare
It seems that I can use a gig or two
I’ll pledge some verse humanity can’t bare.
Iambic sense has rules and guides my pen,
The truth be told, it’s clear my work’s not Zen!