Who Says Real Men Don’t Write Poetry?

Now gather round and listen to a little ditty,
About the biggest, baddest poet of the century,
When you see him comin’, you’ll know without a doubt,
Cause he’s wears his beret backwards, and sometime inside out.
He’s got William Shakespeare quoted on his neck tattoo,
And if you don’t like it you can go take a haiku,
He’s sharpening knives for the poetry slam,
And he’ll meet you outside if your verse didn’t scan.
So you better be prepared and don’t be no amateur,
He’s a rocket in the pocket with iambic pentameter,
When it comes to writing verse he’s the silver tongued devil,
And he’s takin’ bustin’ rhymes to a whole other level.

All the girls they love him and they stop and flirt,
And they’re wearing leather panties under flowered skirts,
Cause you know he’s getting lucky like the Big Lebowski,
And he’s gettin’ more pussy than Charles Bukowski.
But you know he’s bein’ picky, he ain’t takin’ no rubbish,
And he likes them fast and loose and preferably published,
He’s the man with the plan and he gets down on it,
And he’s gone in the morning but he leaves them with a sonnet.
They go weak in the knees cause they know that he’s the leader,
Writin’ rhymes all the time with impeccable meter,
Cause when it comes to writing verse he’s the silver tongued devil,
And he’s takin’ bustin’ rhymes to a whole other level.

All you people step aside cause you know that he’s the boss,
And he’s gettin more quatrains than Robert Frost,
And no one is badder, and no one is meaner,
When he steps out with a tercet, tanka, rondeau or sistena.
So you best show some respect or he’ll go gangsta on your ass,
Cause he’s bringin’ more couplets than Sylvia Plath,
He’s a rockin’, outlaw cowboy, gets it on the down low,
Got the sweets like Keats, got the spooky like Poe.
They roll out the red carpet because he’s a rock star,
And he’s smooth like Byron and he’s Wilde like Oscar,
And when it comes to writing verse he’s the silver tongued devil,
And he’s takin’ bustin’ rhymes to a whole other level.

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A Home Of One’s Own

I walk into the house today,
I can’t believe my eyes,
For once upon my entering,
I’m pleasantly surprised.

The boy sits at the work desk,
He’s all done for the day,
He proudly shows me his report,
All marked with red A’s.

The little girl is sitting there,
In her tiny play seat,
She talks to her dolls quietly,
Her room is nice and neat.

So with the kids behaving,
I decide I should go on,
With tomorrow’s preparations,
To find they have been done.

And dinner simmers on the stove,
It comes along just fine,
To be done to perfection at,
Precisely dinner time.

And with all going swimmingly,
I come to the deduction,
That I’m safe to have ‘Me Time’,
With little interruption.

When a dark foreboding shadow,
Disturbs me from my peace,
I look up to see a figure,
Looking less woman than beast.

From deep within my relaxed state,
With screaming she does rouse,
“I tell you for the last time,
Get the hell out of my house!!”

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