They say that practice breeds perfection's kin
In music, words, painting, all sorts of art.
An unwrit order seems to state the sin
Of frowning 'pon one's 'parent lack of smarts.
I have been told my poetry is more
Than just a bunch of worthless sapiness.
Now, I've only done just about a score,
And some's been good, but of that worthiness?
It's odd what forcing of oneself can do
To visibly improve a bunch of junk.
But once you rise, you can fall again, too.
And frankly I don't want to once more flunk.
So practice does make perfect most the time;
I want to 'spute it, just not in this rhyme.
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I wanted to argue with Marc's comment on the previous poem purely for the sake of being impish... but... but.... I can't really argue in iabmic pentameter! -despairs-
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