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Poet
The poet sat in a quandary.
He had to make things rhyme.
The more he puzzled about it,
The less success he’d find.
So he threw down his pencil and paper,
Frustrated, he walked away.
Maybe he’d never be finished,
Maybe, another day.
He had a jog up Main Street,
Took a shortcut through the park.
He pondered and pondered about it
But still he stayed in the dark.
He jogged back up to his homestead.
He jumped up on the porch.
He conked his head on the door jamb
And crumple to the floor.
Then he came to, enlightened,
He had forgotten to duck,
The rhyming word came to him.
The rhyming word was, “Yuck.”
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