Poetry, it seems to me,
Is easy, just like ABC.
I started writing, so I'm told,
When I was only one year old.
By two, I had been published twice,
And soon twice more, to be precise.
They say I was real disciplined.
A poet, nay, a wunderkind!
Age three was notable because
There was good reason for applause.
A Pulitzer I had just won.
I had my firm place in the sun.
But I stopped writing at age four,
Burned out, consigned to old folklore.
And yet I learned to write again,
But did not know just how or when.
Years have passed—I really miss
Those early toddler days of bliss.
Much older now, I reminisce,
About poetic skills, and this
Just seems to me like child's play, yes,
Reminding me—but I digress.
So what to write, from pen to lip?
Oh, anythong! (a Freudian slip).
My second childhood,—not a curse
But this time I will write free verse!