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.”