Francis Duggan Rhyme Poems

Though my worth as a rhymer i have reason to doubt
No shortage of things for me to write about
To write rhyme is easy as easy as can be
Anybody can do it you can have that from me
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For many years England's Poet Laureate but that's going back in time
John Masefield he wrote long stories in rhyme
True genius of him none could deny
His great poems to his greatness testify,
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At Boesinghe in Belgium Francis Ledwidge fell
Killed there by an exploding shell
And he did not go home again
To Ireland, County Meath and Slane.
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I show the gray time only bring though the years have made me mellow
Still the leopard never change his spots I'm still a rustic fellow
I come from Land of bracken hills and small fields fringed by hedges
And I am still a country man and rough around the edges.
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He's well beyond the ninety and he's Ringwood's last rhyme poet
And his out put is a huge one and reams of rhymes he's wrote
And still he keeps on writing and his verses multiply
And he has still as much zest for life as any teenage boy.
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At least six thousand and five hundred doggerels I've written
Since I first started writing back in seventy three
And I was twenty seven I remember
And the years and time have left their mark on me.
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I'm one of those blokes an addictive rhymer and one might say that I am hooked on rhyme
And many would see that as unproductive or in other words a simple waste of time
I've been penning verse since I was twenty seven and that was thirty four years ago
And I've written over six thousand and five hundred pieces yet for my efforts don't have much to show.
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Poetry now seen for the elite and what was the peoples at one time
Now belong to exclusive clubs and colleges since the death of good old rhyme
This the age of so called blank verse and the era of the modern poet
To new age high brows at poetry readings new age writers stanzas from their own poems quote.
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I cannot claim to be a poet for poets I know are few
And as a doggerelist and a rhymer I'm somewhere between the two
And my literary efforts have not even reached the critics scan
So let me live and let me die an ordinary man.
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The styles and genres of writing keep changing over time
But poetry in English seems only half dressed without rhyme
And though modern poetry is now the in thing
Without rhyme there would be far less songs to sing
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I rhyme not for the love of wealth and fame
Or that mine would become a celebrated name
I only rhyme because i love to rhyme
I have been penning stuff since i was in my life's prime
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As i have written in rhyme of and often did say
That only in death i would give rhyming away
But on this of late i have been changing my mind
That i may give up on rhyming to the thought i am resigned
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With what i am about to say most people would agree
It is easy to rhyme as easy as can be
Dan rhymes with Ann and see rhymes with tree
It is easy to rhyme even easy for me
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I am one who does have a rhyme addiction and I've written one might say a whole lot of rhyme
Without the reward of prestige, fame or money some do say my efforts seem a waste of time
I am not a poet just an average rhymer one who will never make the Rhymers Hall of Fame
As Neily Flynn of Millstreet Town did often remind me that penning verse can be a hungry belly game
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She was the last rhyme poet of her suburb the classic rhymers nowadays seem quite rare
As well as poems she also penned songs and ballads her gifts with others she did share
She lived on her own never gave birth to children or never wished to become any fellow's wife
In her working years a secondary school teacher penning rhyming poetry was her passion in life
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Though eventually we all become victims of time
Till the end of life's journey the rhymer writes rhyme
For others to enjoy and read and recite
'Tis for love of rhyming the rhymer does write
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With little in the way of assets and money to my name
For me penning rhyme a hungry belly game
I say here again what I've often said before
I just write for pleasure that and nothing more
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My literary tastes have not changed with the passing of time
I have always been one with a liking for rhyme
To rhyme is so easy as some like to say
Though rhymers seem so out of fashion today
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It is true what is said anyone can pen rhyme
But the works of the true poets do live on in time
And the twenty first century literary critics the praises of the modern poets sing
It does seem that blank verse is now the in thing
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He led a life of adventure when he was in his prime
John Masefield the man who wrote stories in rhyme
At writing of long narrative poetry in a class of his own
The proof of his greatness his legend in death has grown
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No need to tell me of the death of rhyme
Or of the prose like poetry of our time
And when you tell me that poets are only few
You are not saying anything that is new
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I am one addicted to penning of rhyme
And lucky for me that such an addiction is not seen as a crime
For I would be in prison if such was the case
Deprived of my freedom as a public disgrace
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For many years now I have been a rhyme buff
And though I have written a whole heap of stuff
The rhymes I have penned though not very good
Are not very hard for to be understood,
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I may be years past my life's prime
But still I pen more doggerel rhyme
'Tis just a way of life with me
To write on everyday things I see
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This penning of rhyme can be a hungry belly game
It is true what is said that one cannot live on fame
As a young man i often daydreamed that i would be a poet
Quite wealthy and famous and of literary note
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For many years i have been a rhyming buff
And i am one of those who has penned reams of stuff
The rhymes keep coming to me on notebook paper i pen them down
But never for financial gain or for literary renown
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I repeat here what i have said often before
I write rhymes for enjoyment that and nothing more
Anyone can rhyme Tim rhymes with Jim
And fish as we know they are born to swim
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She is a few decades beyond her life's prime
Perhaps in her early fifties the Woman of Rhyme
Her once brown hair clipped short is now silver gray
One might say she is ageing in the natural way
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Go sing me a rhyme of the wild birds of song
Who in their nesting time of year sing all the day long
On every bush and on every tree
When there is so much beauty in Nature to see
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One addicted to rhyme i have penned reams of stuff
Some of it not all bad and some not good enough
To me 'tis like a drug i feel compelled to write
whilst others watch t v I pen on through the night
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He is many decades past his writing prime
But still he is rhyming the old man of rhyme
And dare you to tell him his best days are gone
In his eightieth year and he keeps penning on
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To be addicted to rhyming is her only crime
The one who is known as the lady of rhyme
Her poems of great beauty a thing of delight
The lives of people and Nature inspire her to write
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A fellow addicted to rhyme my better days they are long gone
A poetaster at best i suppose and yet i keep scribbling on
I've thought about calling it quits as some say i should call it a day
But to my addictions i cling 'tis hard to give scribbling away.
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Though many years now beyond her glorious prime
She will always be known as Koroit's Lady of Rhyme
So humble and gracious despite her renown
The literary toast of the old Moyne Shire Town,
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For so few a ticket to wealth and to fame
For most this penning of verse is a 'hungry belly game'
Yet without any hope of ever knowing of success
They love penning rhyme and pen on nonetheless.
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One must go back some fifty years since he was in his prime
And time is catching up on him the Town's old man of rhyme
His poems now few and far between his pen is moving slow
His inspiration well is running dry 'twas full long years ago.
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For thirty three years I've been addicted to rhyme
And I've been penning stuff since I was in my prime
The verses I write I could not hope to sell
Perhaps I am bound for the Poetasters hell.
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She is in her thirties ten years past her physical prime
This talented poetess addicted to rhyme
Though she does not write for money or love of renown
There is no finer poet than her in the Town.
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The poetess long dead but her words living on
Since she passed away many Seasons have come and have gone
The one who had penned many a memorable poem and song
To the long deceased legends she now does belong
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The thing known as rhyme is not hard for to write
And easy to memorize and to recite
For as long as the rhythm and metre are right
A good rhyme poem can be a source of delight
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They do write in English but never in rhyme
Those referred to by the literary critics as the poets of our time
Of language they seem to have a great command
Though their poems I do struggle for to understand.
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Some people now refer to rhyme as prose
That's how they see it one has to suppose
Between verse and doggerel the meaning they do miss
But then with their sort ignorance is bliss.
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I've been penning stuff since I was in my life's prime
For some thirty five years that is going back in time
An addiction to writing is never a crime
But few can write poetry anyone can rhyme
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As verse it is seen as out of fashion and those who pen it not destined for wealth or for fame
It would seem it has passed it's use by date few things in life do stay the same
Rhyme verse is as dead as the dodo that's what literary critics do say
Suppose it did have a good innings since everything does have it's day.
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I do love the music in old fashioned rhyme
The poetry some say is of another time
The poetry that is born of music and song
The poetry that to people who love rhyme belong.
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He is in his mid forties and well past his prime
The greying and balding Donny known as the Man of Rhyme
In the Pub to his mates his verses he recite
And they always applaud him much to his delight.
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She is not what you'd call beautiful though still in her prime
And to those who know her she is known as The Woman of Rhyme
In Local Literary circles not even one of note
As she does not fit the bill of the Modern Poet.
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Literary trends like the Seasons keep changing the old style songs no longer sung
And rhyme verse is as dead as the dodo too old to be loved by the young
Some say to me change your style of writing or if not give doggerelizing away
Success I've not gained though I've tried hard perhaps I should heed what they say.
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I believed there was a heaven beyond the sky
Where all good souls go to on the day they die
And that hell was for those who murder, cheat and lie
But that was years back when I was a young boy.
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Money speaks all languages 'twould seem
Though of becoming wealthy never was my dream
Still I've nothing to show for my wasted prime
That is the price one pays for penning rhyme.
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