At least one poem a day,
wrote in my own special way.
It's basically habit,
not really food for the rabbit.
Anyway the rabbit don't care,
too me it's a personal dare.

Dare to serve my whatever,
do it now or do it never,
doesn't have anything to do with clever.
If I was clever,
I'd probably up my endeavor.
But I try to be smart,
and keep my verse to heart,
been doing it right from the very start.

I'm A trite simple poet at times,
been accused of these crimes,
Yet my poetry still sublimes,
I was writing through the den one day,
in the merry merry month of may.
When it came to my eyes,
a great big poetic surprise.

My verse looking back,
screaming hey jack.
I had to get my negative side out of my sack,
it was trying to make a bed in my rack.
I twist and I shout,
try to procede the most positive route.
But still my negative pulls a knock out.

I get floored,
fall asleep snored,
wake up still bored,
go on and serve this rabbit,
even though I know it's just habit.
The rabbit don't care,
maybe the eagle flies somewhere.
Instead in comes a buzzard,
a bird of prey,
reminding me I'm the same way.
Preying on my curse,
writing out this verse.

O