Mr & Mrs Poet

— It’s all very well going to hell
in a handcart made of rhyme,
but who will feed the children
and make an honest dime?

— Fear not, my gentle beldam,
for the Muse of Poetry
will feed our pretty offspring,
some left o’er for you and me.

— Then tell your Muse the kids need shoes
and the bank foreclosed the loan.
We’ll be o’er at my mother’s place
— don’t bother to phone.


 

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