Within this box of glowing white
I type, in pixels black,
These words. I try to get them right,
Yet still I feel they lack
A certain something. Yeats I’m not
Nor am I Keats or Austen.
My forte, I would say, is plot:
This scansion is exhausten’.
And so, although ’tis poetry
This month is meant to honour,
I don’t think it’s the month for me.
Why, I can’t even find a last line that has the right number of beats and ends with a rhyme for “honour.”
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