To my friend, who is still my friend; she inferred that poems are supposed to rhyme.
My dear friend there is no crime
if my poems do not rhyme.
Amazed that I am able to write
most is done to the dead of night.
I sit and think as words do flow
deep within; inside my soul.
The lessons of life I will share
my poems show how much I care.
All sorts of subjects I will try
they can be sad and make you cry.
This rhyming ditty is at an end
before it drives me round the bend.
Just one more thing: a final thought
a fitting ending I have sought.
We both know what rhymes with rhyme
there is but one possibility: yes its wine.