Those who know me all agree
My writing is not cursed
I write in fiction and in fact
And always end up versed
It isn’t something I had planned
So surely that’s no crime
Each time I put my pen to work
The work comes out in rhyme
I’ve tried to take my mind off it
In the countryside I’d roam
Until I see the wildlife
And it makes another poem
The other day my brother came
We both went out for dinner
He bet upon a football match
And ended up a winner
My doctor came to see me
I asked him was I sick
He said I should take senna pods
And that should do the trick
I didn’t like the look of it
A murky dark brown drink
But it cured me of my rhyming
Cos I’ve got no time to think
© 2008 David Threadgold
Rambling Riddles & Rhymes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem