Poem for Mom

Mom, you want to be a poet,
And like everyone here, I know it.
Now, I’ve read some of your work,
And I hate to be a jerk …
In your poems the violets are blue,
But your rhymes are like pooh.
Now, you’re not too old,
Or so I’ve been told.

There’s still plenty of time,
You too can learn to rhyme,
I know that you think,
When you put it in ink,
Those high-brow pentameters
Are all that really matters.
You throw down some iambic,
Convinced, “Well, that’ll do the trick.
In your search for fame you get antsy,
And so you try a little too hard and write fancy.
But those eloquent words in the end,
Don’t allow us commoners to comprehend.
So at the risk of putting my head in the noose,
  For your birthday I bought you some Dr. Seuss.