TWO FOR THE MONEY
I swear to God, no need to lie, I'll try with all my might.
to write a poem, by and by, whose content isn't such a fright.
A worthy thing, a skill to grow, spit out in verse that's free
of excess rules, but don't you know, it's always rhymes that come to me.
The deer graze upon the lawn while Grandma sips her tea and watches from the porch unfazed by Iran's yellow cake uranium and Grandpa sneaking up behind her with malice aforethought.
So there it is, a poem's start, that's lacking rhyme or reason.
I sincerely wish, with all my heart, to scribble blank verse nice and pleasin'.
You see me now, I'm deep in thought, of an end not mean or dreary,
but to write it out, what muse has wrought, I'm told is just a freakin' theory.
Grandpa slips silently by Grandma and takes dead aim. A dog barks a warning in the distance and before Grandpa can pull the trigger the deer have scattered.
"Serves you right," says Grandma.
So there it is, my promised verse, as a poet I'm now anointed.
You must admit, it could be worse, at least my poem's double pointed.
Doc Walton April 2013