Thrice Etched on Heimdal's Runestone

Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, twaddle-de-tripe,
be thee like Carroll and hunt thee a snipe.
Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, drivel-de-dee,
the pageys are blankey as blankey can be.

Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, grey be my locks,
beard be unshaven and fragrant me socks.
Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, dead be the muse,
she lay in de corner and she decompuse.

Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, cursed be the one
commandeth a ditty with each rising sun.
Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, cursed be the page
that soaketh up nothing but impotent rage.

Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, scratchy me scalp,
scrape in the papers to find me some help.
Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, dead be the Pope,
useless is he for he rhyme not with strophe.

Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, nearing the end!
What say you, the middle? Call you thee a friend?
Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, he soon am I
who type in The Shining that singular line.

Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, babble-de-bunk,
be thee like Eco and write thee a monk.
Poem-a-day, poem-a-day, hooey-de-hee,
the pageys are blankey as blankey can be.

 
NaPoWriMo 2005, April 12