I wrote 9 poems in the bath last night,
Every word was right.
Not a foot was out of line,
The virgin product of my mind.
Poems that might well have been,
The most amazing poems you ever have seen.
Then to my despair,
As out the water drained,
So the memory of those poems
From this World did wane.
And as unmagic waters cleared,
My mental artwork lost its cheer
The memory of it,
just as if
A bare and stale thought of yesteryear.
Just like that I couldn't rhyme,
In spite of doing it all the while
Then, like that,
The metre itself began to
Just moments before
Began to slip
Until, to now,
That poetic score
Turned into grammar
Clumsy and often quite boring really.
I misused with words without the patter
Of welcome word whirlpools
In which once paddled I.
And now, with slippery rhyming feet,
I found analogy begin to sliiiip
And so every one last poem,
Turned into some,
- what's the word? -
It means brown gunky brown goo
(someone get me that rhyming book)
Before it was flushed forever from my...
um, noggin? No*.
But, oh, how I wish that I'd stayed
Warm among those tranquil waters,
Where with harmony and reflexion
I had spun those poems, adeptly played.
Until tomorrow then:
When it's time I try to 'poet' again,
I'll try my best to remember them
And - just in case -
I'll bring my pen.
* A word like that, will never do...
A word like that makes the best poem poo!