The Cliche Storm

Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

Say not the struggle naught availeth;
But is it worth the flaming candle?
Can I pull those hearty Strings,
Or will my pretty baubles jangle?

Where on earth do things grow down,
And how can spoken jokes be dumb?
Perhaps it’s to do with nonsense verse
Veiled by rule of my thick thumb.

When I escape this dragging net,
When I have pulled my other leg,
When I have plighted all my troths,
It’s then I will sit up and beg.

Till then I’ll fly by my pants’ seat;
I’ll kiss my nascent hopes goodbye.
They’ll rescue me from life itself
And sing my praises to the sky.

For I’m a versifier pure
I’d rather play with words than girls
Forever searching non sequiturs
Words have more twists and turns than curls.

Photo by Bich Tran on Pexels.com