Our heads hurt
For Tom
Words shoot from the fingers onto the page
They care not what is said in far off days.
Blacksmithing, hammering, forging their shape,
They are moulded and sculpted, forced to escape.
Why they were written is lost to time,
No-one now knows why they must rhyme.
Teachers sit their students down, ask questions,
Wait for the answers, making suggestions.
Similes, and Metaphors, Deictic too,
Personae and Metonymy all ensue.
Structure is important, how does it look?
Dramatic? Sonnet? No, no, not a book.
Enjambment is present, A rhyming scheme.
Couplets sound good. A smile, they beam.
Pastiche, Parody, don’t be Absurd;
Understanding verses, our heads hurt.
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