Alarm clocks, women, toys and books;
Bananas, high-heels, dirty looks.
The clocks get bigger as they grow,
For Cleopatra told me so.
And in the middle of it all,
Suspended, that which cannot fall,
There lies a prickly yellow fruit
That renders chosen meter moot.
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the-arraignment almost 16 years ago
Thanks! I'm glad you like my work;
My rhyming tends to get berserk.
I can't predict how it will go;
It's better just to let it flow.
The rhythm often can be tough;
At least, until you know that stuff.
I much prefer, above the rest,
iambic tetrameter best.