She Is No Poet – But A Poem

I thought that I would never find
a better poet with a mind
that works in strange but fertile fields
and throws at us the stuff it yields
but then you came into my life
you stuck around, became my wife
your English was from Hollywood
you knew the basics but you could
not form a sentence with finesse
and often got into a mess
when foreign guests who spoke your tongue
corrected you, ‘say hang, not hung’,
and when my hopes were disappointed
about your brain, would it be jointed
with cognitive abilities
to form a poem ‘rhyme me please’,
I sat myself onto a chair
and asked my God, if this was fair
but God had better things to do
so I went on, without ado
and wrote my stuff, it was well liked
then, quite on impulse I had spiked
her drink to get the juices flowing
so soon we’d have the neighbours crowing
yet it became so very clear
that her smooth legs, my fragrant dear
had not a smidgen of the skill
that you and I and others will
with flair present to all who listen
no, it is true my spouse was missing
the talent to create a rhyme
and here she was within her prime
I found it was a major flaw
that in the end she never saw
and as I moped and pouted some
she snuggled close and said, Hon, come
I’ll show you poetry deluxe
and then I sensed that the true crux
was not the words that would persuade
because they do, in time all fade
no where I looked for a creation
a play with words as a sensation
I had right near me the collection
of all the poems on reflection
and history and human pain,
and love and hate, financial gain
of sorrow and the sad good-byes
and loyalties and filthy lies
I grabbed her then with all my lust
and whispered in her ear ‘you must
not ever think that one dam verse
will make them fall out of their hearse
when I regard you with my eyes’,
I laugh at all the other guys
for I have landed what you sought
and you have nothing, yes, its’ naught
my Shakespeare, who is rather nude
right now and, no, not being rude
will turn the lights off in great haste
this poem now will not be chaste.