When Rhyme is without Reason | india | Hindustan Times
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When Rhyme is without Reason

india Updated: Aug 29, 2006 17:03 IST
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This little bit of doggerel
Which pretends to be verse,
Might start with a hint of promise
But will get worse and worse.

So if you’re out to improve
your mind
I suggest you turn the page,
There are features on the
other side
More deserving at this stage.

But if fun is what you’re
seeking,
A little laughter or a smile,
Linger on and keep reading
This ditty has no bile.

The problem with the English language
Or, indeed, verse and rhyme,
Is the more you struggle with the ending
The less it sounds sublime.

Great poets have great ideas
And they’ve got the words to boot,
But I’m not sure what to write —
Politics, people, it’s all moot!

For me the fascination
Lies in the metre and the rhyme.
Te dum, te dum, te dumpty
But, alas, that’s only mime.

Shakespeare I am not
Nor Milton or Ted Hughes;
Words force themselves upon me
Although they muddle and
confuse.

Nonsense verse is what I write,
Of that I have no doubt.
But on a Sunday morning
Do you want philosophy
by a Kraut?
I write because I have to
And this column needs filling-in,
But now that I’ve started
I’m damned if I’ll give-in!

Remember the search for
meaning
Is like the quest for life,
You may or not find salvation
But you won’t please your wife!

Let me therefore advise you
And from wisdom do I speak,
On Sundays you have a choice —
Grab it, don’t be meek.

Say you’re off to the kitchen,
Let her dream of breakfast
in bed,
Then slink out via the garden
And head for the club instead.

She’ll rant and rave to start with,
Women can be like that.
Then the silence’ll begin to please her
Or the children or the cat.

If with flowers you come home
Late enough for things to cool,
She’ll have dinner on the table,
A kiss for her favourite fool.

The moral of this story
Is easy to find and sound —
Even if this poem’s absurd
There’s meaning all around.

A marriage only works well
When a distance is maintained,
Coming too close together
Causes misery and pain.

Finally, if you’ve read this far
Grant me a little wish —
Call me a budding poet
Not a flip-flop struggling fish.

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