Poetry from the pen of someone who knows about my computer skills and who doesn't know Nick from a bar of soap but who hasn't let that stop him, let me introduce our next poem in the poetry-slam.
'Twas an Internet Butler named Nick,
Went abroad on account of his dick,
Who had promised he'd find,
Women who'd blow his mind,
'Cos his accent was Aussie and thick.
But his mates at home were all dark,
Especially our friend Lorin Clarke,
Her few skills in I.T,
Could not be called mighty,
And relied on Nick's trustworthy spark.
But on the eve of this comedy fest,
Let's remember how much we've been blessed,
We'd not have this site,
Nor poems this shite,
If it weren't for Nick's generous bequest.
(Now, Nick, there is slim possibility this is libellous. I know some very good lawyers but I must say I kind of like any poet who refers to me as "dark". So many layers of meaning).
Big kudos to our new Mystery poet. See you at the Comedy Festival, you bawdy wordsmith.
Thank you Lorin. I am both flattered and impressed with your reply. Long have I bewailed the lack of craftsmanship frequently seen in many of the poems I have seen offered up, on the Internet. Were it not for the unbridled eagerness of some writers to proclaim their skills to the poetry starved public that another Milton, Shelley, Keats or whomsoever they think to emulate, is about to cast offerings to those starved of artistic culture, a few minutes serious thought might well improve their piece and make it more acceptable. Yes I too have been guilty of this sin! But perhaps to say it better, may this old cynic be indulged once again? The following was written at an earlier date.
My Lament.
At school I was taught to speak grammatically.
Never to use phrases such as 'ain't' or 'gonna be'!
Or, as teachers would indicate emphatically,
I would neither write, speak nor act dramatically!
Bad usage of English, was always soundly denounced,
As slowly, I learned how words should be pronounced.
When I used verbs or nouns wrongly, teachers pounced!
Until one most auspicious day, they grudgingly announced
I had against all odds, passed my English grammar exam!
Though I was informed I'd barely scraped through, am
Today, aware of what determines anagram or witty epigram.
Know how to end a line with rhyme or allow it to enjamb.
For years, this knowledge was kept on the back burner.
Until later, after years of being the family's wage earner,
Hoping to use my dormant skills, as a poetic word turner.
Found in these, my teacher aught to have been much sterner!
At times, tedious hours and days of re-writes it will take,
For me to hone and polish a simple rhyme I’d make.
Correcting my all too numerous grammatical mistakes,
Calls for remembering many rules. Gives me a headache!
But as I intend to write, must struggle hard and persevere
If I'd recall the good advice which I once hated to hear.
Oh! How I wish my crabby old English teacher was here
To help correct my work! He’d make my intentions clear.
But alas! I cannot return to those days gone by!
Or remember much of his teachings, although I try.
So should errors in my verses make you wince or cry,
Think only of the intended meaning my words imply!
Rhymer
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