Writing poems which rhyme can tricky and tough
for words often look like they’re from the same bough,
yet the end of each line sounds quite different, though,
and best hidden behind a hiccough or cough.
I wonder, did this bother Byron or Yeats?
Or Larkin or Wordsworth, Auden or Keats?
Were opportunities found or simply just threats?
Could they write their rhymes without caveats?
But what should it matter when all’s said and done
if you should read this as scone when I meant scone?
It’s hardly a crime for which you need to atone.
It would all be baloney to an abalone.
So perhaps I should not be quite so afeard.
Some poems are best seen, rather than heard.