Today is National Poetry Day, so I must now inform
The World that she whom I adore, she who keeps me warm,
Hates my verse, abhors my rhymes, thinks my scansion gorm-
Less.
My love, alas, approves the content but deplores the form.
What I see as a refuge from the wild, encircling storm,
She sees as simply stinkier than a Belgian borstal dorm
And drippier than the rubber trees in a short story by Maugham.
Alas, my love approves the content but deplores the form.
It gets yet worse: not only does my verse underperform
Because it’s written, so she claims, in ways outside the norm;
I think she thinks it should be eaten by a locust swarm.
My love, alas, approves the content but deplores the form.
Our daughter’s worse, for she believes ALL poetry is grim;
Thinks trying to express your thoughts and feelings thus is lame,
Which leads me, with great sorrow, to conclude we must assume
She really hates the content AND truly deplores the form.
Me? I think that my poor verses have a certain chorm,
And by and large I kid myself that they do little horm.
Moreover they’ve a neutral impact on my huge incorm,
So I approve their content and I approve their form!