Does this writing stink of me?
Pong of Carol Ann Duffy?
T.S. Elliot, you can’t ignore.
Can you smell Marianne Moore?
And Will Wordsworth,
Oh What On Earth?
Clearly seeing Oscar Wilde?
Writing Dahl for my dear child?
Milligan’s not your average Joe.
Just like Edgar Allan Poe.
Lewis Carroll, what jabberwocky.
Writing all this fiddly quocky.
Can poetry be more like prose?
A harsh and untamed prickly rose?
And can’t I find my own voice?
It’s my decision; it’s my own choice.
So if you decide that I completely stink,
Then I’ll rhyme again and make you re-think.