Athetoid

In my bag,
a change of scenery
I have.
To lift the weary place
that has displaced the cheery face
of the other day.

What a mucky-pup I am,
and I don’t give a damn
about the mess in my talking
along with the untidyness of my walking.

The way,
as they say,
of the world
is that the physics are sometimes wrong.
Such a pitty
when the words of a song
don’t rhyme,
but they don’t have to all the time.

My words don’t always
rhyme,
and my rhythm skips a beat
now and then.
Trees, wildflowers and birds and song
may not line the scenery I hold.
But scenery I do hold,
it’s not bare at all.

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