where art collides

Before you set to digging in other people’s gardens,

first bear in mind what they consider weeds,

then be careful where you tread

and ask before you deadhead,

for all you know they’ll want them for the seeds.

You’re time-expired, you’ve been retired, cold-shouldered from the job-scene,

you’re surplus to requirements, a sad, discarded has-been,

your use-by date has come and gone, you’re on the shelf from this point on,

you see yourself rejected, diminished and demeaned.

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For some who choose to sip from the Spring of Hyppocrene
rhyming’s like a virus for which there’s no vaccine;
our poems read like excerpts from traditional pantomime
Beware you would-be wordsmiths, the curse of verse is rhyme
Rhyme’s merely ornamental, a sort of literary glue
fun when writing doggerel or limericks or clerihew
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