I'm
embarassed to be posting another poem because I'm not at all a proper
poet. But some kind of virus is putting rhymes into my head, so what can
I do? I have to get rid of them.
There's something about making words rhyme, it's not only fun but also a sort of cave you fall into where innumerable connections lie in wait and all you have to do is link them up by rhyming. It's as if we have an in-built receptor for rhythm and we automatically respond to beats and measures, whether in music, dance, drumming, chants, games.
Here's one which appeared a little while ago, but not by the Blind Bookshelf method. It was just there.
SILVER SPOON
The silver spoon was out of tune.
Get me the tin one, the artist said,
the one I keep under the bed
to remind me I am working class
and wasn't always such an ass.
With silver spoons I made my name
and now I'm in the hall of fame.
At stately homes and clubs I'm feted
at Glastonbury I'm awaited
I know damn well I'm over-rated
but hey, they pay.
what can I say?
Get me the tin spoon, there's a good girl,
after the show I'll give you a whirl.
There's something about making words rhyme, it's not only fun but also a sort of cave you fall into where innumerable connections lie in wait and all you have to do is link them up by rhyming. It's as if we have an in-built receptor for rhythm and we automatically respond to beats and measures, whether in music, dance, drumming, chants, games.
Here's one which appeared a little while ago, but not by the Blind Bookshelf method. It was just there.
SILVER SPOON
The silver spoon was out of tune.
Get me the tin one, the artist said,
the one I keep under the bed
to remind me I am working class
and wasn't always such an ass.
With silver spoons I made my name
and now I'm in the hall of fame.
At stately homes and clubs I'm feted
at Glastonbury I'm awaited
I know damn well I'm over-rated
but hey, they pay.
what can I say?
Get me the tin spoon, there's a good girl,
after the show I'll give you a whirl.
7 comments:
Yes, I received your letter yesterday
About the time the door knob broke
When you asked me how I was doing
Or was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row.
Here's an oldie, not mine.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue-ish.
If it wasn't for Christmas
we'd all be Jewish.
Vincent, thanks, that's very intriguing. I'm trying to piece together a story behind it. Shouldn't the last line be "to Desolation Row" rather than "from"? The person who is speaking the lines sounds like they are definitely IN Desolation Row!
Bruce, you're not allowed to quote existing verses. Come on, you can write your own! Try my game (close eyes, approach bookshelves etc.)
Sorry. I forgot the rules. I'm old. Okay? :D
No excuses, Bruce. You're a youngster, I'm old!
When did you say there were rules? I cheated, merely copied from Bob Dylan's song, without changing the words.
Vincent! I should have remembered "Desolation Row" was Dylan! But then I never learned all the lyrics to his songs.
My 'rules', for anybody who might be interested to play this game, were a few posts ago, titled "An Experiment in Milking Randomness". The whole point is to invent a rhyming poem starting with a randomly found sentence. If it it was a matter of quoting poems that rhyme, we'd be here forever!
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