A Poetic Anecdote
My mother recently wrote a poem warning against eating her food—as she is not known to be a prolific cook—and posted it in the kitchen. It went like this:
He who eats here
Must trust his fate
To please his palate
And fill his plate
Sometimes there is
Sometimes there ain't
I'm not a cook
I like to paint
I responded to this abomination with a poem of my own:
I found the bane of Euterpe
one dismal winter day
A poem so bereft of skill
I thought my mind would fray
Into a million tiny threads—
it would have been more pleasant
Than living with its memory
as I do in the present.For in the many brilliant years
when poems were composed
No single dumb, ungainly fool
had ever yet proposed
To write a poem with such a rhyme
to make the muses faint
And throw decorum to the wind
by rhyming "paint" with "ain't."