Trying to faux rap on my walk to breakfast
I’ve had a stroke,
But I won’t pout
I’m not really sure what this poem’s about.

I’ve never been able to rhyme;
It’s the strangest thing.
I tried when I was twelve
But moved on ahead.
I’m always amazed when people ask
“What’s that poem about?”
“Hey, I’m just the poet. You figure it out.”
It’s up to the reader perhaps more than I.
I just like the sound of the things
And remain: a brain-damaged old man, scribbling nothing.
I guess this is the part where you’d expect the big finish.
Well, like some unmentionables (wink, wink)
It ain’t that big, but it gets the job done.

Good-bye