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.”