Fun With Eye-Rhymes

What the title says. Blame Adam Warne.

I love a poet who is prone to laughter,
For mirth can cover most of Poesy's slight crimes -
But happily I'll put to death and slaughter
A poet who just overuses sight rhymes.
'Cos while the eye-rhyme's often fun to read,
It jars a bit when actually it's said -
They only really work when in your head.
So visual-rhyming poets, please take heed:
I want no guilt at my own doorstep laid -
It's not my fault if you end up puréed.
Or maybe, better yet - I'll go and comb
The internet for ways to make a bomb,
To send you wanton wordsmiths to your tomb.
But worry not, O poets, don't you frown:
Don't run and hide, a-trembling in your fear.
This poem mostly proves the fault's my own -
That fitting cap is one that I should wear.

The Saga Of Performing Asvald, or S.O.P.A.

So the Viking was sat on the beach by the surf,

He was singing a saga as old as the Earth.

With his audience rapt and not likely to tire,

He recited his tale by the warmth of the fire:

Of the Gods and of mortals so brave and so bold,

Of Valhalla and Valkyries, gleaming in gold,

In the tale that he told, in a voice that was mighty,

All the heroes were strong, all the heroines flighty.

Though the sailors that listened had heard it before,

They would happily sit and enjoy it once more –

For the tale’s in the telling, as I’ve always said,

And the skill of the artist who’s earning his bread.

Yet no agent had he, nor no management suits

Who would leech off this bard, off his fame and repute,

And no laws to protect them were written in stone,

For the oral tradition looked after its own.

And the song wasn’t his, and yet nobody cared:

In the time of the Vikings, all music was shared –

And performed, not for profit, but just for the glow

That both singer and crowd get from passionate shows.

When the epic was over, the embers were cold,

And when all had done praising the skill of the skald,

Then they lay down to sleep in their camp by the sea,

And gave thanks for the fact that such speeches were free.

An Alcoholic's Resolution

Some fun in Ottava Rima for New Year's. Apologies to George.

I want a beer: oh, an uncommon want,

  When every New Year’s Eve sends forth a slew,

Which I demolish in some favourite haunt,

   To bid the last twelve months a fond adieu;

But when I wake up, wracked with pain, and gaunt,

   I swear I’ll never sup another brew — 

So pounding is my headache New Year’s Day,

That only beer can make it go away...

An Unexpected Gift

An allegory so thinly veiled, I might as well have cling-filmed it.

I received an unexpected gift

early one morning

I opened the door, and there she was:

A little white kitten.

I called her “Snowy”.

When she was young,

Snowy was fun

and fluffy and playful.

I'd say we frolicked,

but that is such a loaded word.

But almost overnight,

I woke up to find that

Snowy's heart had turned to ice.

She'd stick her cold claws into my fingers,

get under my feet,

& try & trip me up

& break my neck

at every

available

opportunity.

I fucken hate Snowy.