Mishi's Journal of Stuff

Hail Poetry, thou heav'n born maid,

In truth I'm just angling for a good grade,

My strength is in fiction and prose if I must,

My poesy muscles are nothing but rust.

One day in grade seven, my teacher approached us,

And announced that my poems were truly atrocious,

My rhymes were too hackneyed, my themes were too lame,

My meter too shaky, my language too plain,

In fact Mrs. Letters (for that was her name),

Wondered if I'd commit suicide in shame,

But I have survived as you might recognize,

Though I resolved that sticking to prose would be wise.