I’m looking for a poem-

Anything that qualifies.

As they pop up I reject them.

But who am I to be so picky?

Only the poet, not the Muse.

 

She–for she’s a she,

I know it–doesn’t

discriminate  but spits them

out one, two, three. She’ll

be the death of me, I know it.

 

Tripping lightly through the words

Stilted language for the birds

Stomping heavy through the verbs

Hidey ho and Camelot.

You name it she’ll write it.

 

Three whole verses, is that enough?

Critics can be kinda tough.

Pillow’s waiting, I must go

Tomorrow’s another day

They say,

and I hope.