I would not claim the name of ‘bard’,
or even one of high regard.
In truth this labour’s much too hard
to gain respect.
For in the end there’s scant reward,
and that’s a fact.
When thoughts pour out upon the page.
Some are foolish, other’s sage.
A few, restricted by the age,
Seem out of place.
The poet, by using every gauge,
must set the pace.
Reader, please have pity for a bard
who, finding that his muse comes hard,
then fails to play the trumping card
and win the game.
Think twice before you say, “blackguard,
you’ll not find fame.”
Sometimes the mind’s a deep dark den
when words flow sluggish from the pen,
and worse to try to make them blend,
so kind reader permit,
some licence when he fails to end
for lack of wit.
Rejoice when sometimes words combine
to raise your soul with thoughts that shine,
to swell your heart, to thrill your mind,
that you may think,
at last! at last! here is a rhyme
that’s worth the ink.
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