I’ll grant you that it’s not 18th century poetry, as was suggested here. It’s a bit of a stretch to call it poetry at all.

As usual, it’s just whatever comes out of my head that requires the least possible effort. My life’s work has been something of a celebration of laziness and, in the end, I’ve not got much to say.

Thanks go to Kate, anyway, for shaking me briefly out of my slumber.

***

An epistle I can whistle

I’m just talking to the street

I can hum it, I can strum it

I’m just walking to the beat

A letter to the editor

Hello. I’m doing well

I’ve got these words inside of me

I’ve got a tale to tell

I’m praying what I’m saying

Might make some sort of sense

Did you hear me say it yesterday?

Was it past or present tense?

I’m so mad. A little sad

I’m so normal I could cry

A little song. A singalong

One more verse before I die

I’m grinning at the sunshine

I’m barking at the moon

My little rhyme is keeping time

Though I’m singing out of tune

Hear me mumble as I stumble

Watch me mix a metaphor

You can look. Please watch me cook

Because it’s you I’m cooking for

***