The red-headed poetaster
Thought she wasn't worth a piastre
And before, if you as't'er
She'd say, "use it all as plaster."
She made herself reherse and reherse
To try and perfect her verse
To her surprise, it wasn't cursed,
Not destined for the herse.
So the red-headed poetaster
Is thinking much faster
Hold off on the making-plaster
Her poems just might be satisfat-er.
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This poem was made possible by The Oxford Essential Thesaurus, The Oxford Essential Dictionary, Merriam-Webster's Rhyming Dictionary, www.merriam-webster.com, and The Highly Selective Dictionary for the Extraordinarily Literate.
I know, the rhythm's probably off, and some of the rhymes are really weird, but I'm one of those "I wish the world would just go away for a while" moods (in other words, I could care less at the moment). I would've done a pocket poem, as it's Poem in Your Pocket Day, but I just wasn't feeling in a pocket-ish mood, and I found the word "poetaster" so much more relevant at the moment.
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