Beethovan, it is said,
never used an eraser;
I down my bourbon
without a chaser.
Let that Mozart use too many notes
As he laughed at his Times
and disregarded boats;
I feel flushed & giddy when using rhymes.
TS Eliot and Mr. Thomas rhymed
betwixt & between every other hope:
couplets would suit me fine,
some Modern-day Alexander Pope.
I hear Stravinsky playing n my head:
a forlorn dream he often did dread.
Shostakovich wrote that he composed
not for us, but for himself instead.
I dislike rhyme but pursue it in vain
in rain
draconian-like, no Mark Twain;
Peter, Paul and Mary had more than one hit:
I tell all you second-graders ', eat it! '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem