As April wanes I wax poetic

Concern myself with things aesthetic

Like rhyming onomatopoeia

With maybe an encyclopedia?

—

But as this month for special language

Comes to a close I always anguish

Over beats, syllables, also grammar

And iambic pentameter.

—

I think that you shall never see

Good poetry composed by me

But that won’t stop me e’ry April

To see if I am sudd’ly capable

—

Because it would be really fun

To write as Ogden Nash had done

Except a diphthong for me to coin

Might pull a muscle in my groin

—

Suppose I try for assonance

And wind up being half a dunce?

Or strain to conjure up a dactyl?

It’s just not feasible, not practyl

—

So poetry is not my deal

It’s hard to write, somehow not real.

Let Kilmer match a poem and tree

That seems a stretch, I’ll stick to free

Verse.

Or worse.