A Rhyme

I’ve never had the hat
to tell Paul Simon that
“thyme”
doesn’t really rhyme
with “mine.”
Internal rhyme is fine,
a pleasant poetic pastime;
but the waste of a word
is the taste of a turd.
I want wine
but get grime.

Word-wealthy Walt Whitman,
he rhymed to his Captain
but not to himself.
His song of himself
was not on the shelf
in my den
which was then
my poetry playpen
when
I was ten
with my Little Red Hen.

Now the Dr. had Sam
and I am
and Green Ham.
His rhymes were not hard,
but he ranked with the Bard
in rhyming yard
after yard
of prose.
Who knows
what goes
behind nose
and pen
of such men?

The public may cheer
the rhymes here;
but my ear
is queer,
and prudent I’m near
to hear.