(in defense of Poetry)
For years we've been swindled
by pundits near and far,
who strum instead of rocking
on Poetry's guitar.
A world of near-bridges,
car's pistons out of time...
To rhyme's left over smidgeons
I, sighing, raise my stein.
Like beer's hops and brine,
like foam turned into bliss,
to bards who meter, rhyme
with love, I blow a kiss.
Love s brew
© Copyright: Athena, 2002
Свидетельство о публикации №102091900199
Свидетельство о публикации №102091900199
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