Worthwhile prose lore
I convert into poems
for the vice versas
who read those
but avoid prose
for its time
and or lack of rhyme.
'Our thirsts, Poet,
will increase carbon emissions
until a machine
making great milk and meat
saves our immediate future.'
'It won't be like that, Janet.
There will be no great machine.
Emissions will increase.
Our thirsts will destroy the planet.'
The humbleness of the poet
for not quite rhyming;
for saying, 'I'd love to partake
of madeleines so delicate'.
The perfectionism of whom,
for whom 'not quite' won't do,
who adds, 'in fact, I'd love eight.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem