The Ten-Digit Poet

I have a most peculiar obsession
That plays out when I set forth words in rhyme;
Each and every topic and impression
Conforms to ten syllables every time.

I’ve tried to write other forms of fashion,
But somehow, it just never seems to fit;
It seems I can only keep my passion
When I count off ten syllables, then quit.

Have mercy on the Ten-Digit Poet…
Addicted to decasyllabic rhyme,
So one-dimensional…yes, I know it…
But don’t rescue me, ‘cause it feels sublime.

Imagine my maddening circumstance…
If you can while keeping your sanity;
Try to fit all music with the same dance,
Or whatever else suits your vanity.

If I’d budget wealth like I do each line,
I’d have a bank account fit for a king;
Yet, my verse is all that is truly mine
To laugh, cry, dance, or make music to sing.

Thus, the tale of the Ten-Digit Poet
Is done, and I’ve kept my obsession true:
This gift I share, as only I know it…
One finger times eight plus one thumb times two.