Typical
My uncle writes a poem He thinks it's quite a tome The words don't make much sense Not even matching tense But onward he keeps goin'
He asks his brother “What'd you think?” Between sips of his drink His brother says, “Good, you rhymed hood with wood.” His fingers crossed and a wink
I suppose it's okay for a hobby Keeps your kids from the nursing home lobby If the poems are too weak Like they've sprung a leak At least you're not gnarled and knobby