To our lord Yeats, the savior
To Heaney, Kavanagh and
All the muse's saints,
I beg forgiveness,
For the sins that I've committed
I scrapbook together these Scribblings.
Call them a verse, then quit on technique.
Hang phrases on skeletal beats,
Rhyming words without song,
As I try to feed the internet longings,
For the new, the fresh.
Quick and easy free-form recipes.
Any old thing will do.
Slap it down, write it out,
Comment, like, vote anew.