Wolf Ticket here. Here’s a past poem of mine that must have escaped your keen eye.
Sure it’s doggerel, but such multisyllabic misplaced time and effort shouldn’t go unremarked. I ain’t begging, but some props for the polysyllable rhymes, or I’m not taking the puppy to the park. Which will just serve to piss the puppy off, and he’ll pout throughout the day, which means the muse fears to show, and the sun, if you haven’t notice, doesn’t set… it drops off the table in a seasonally adjusted huff, allowing bourbon pours to begin quicker, and pool in angst and chasing other bad poems and you don’t want to be subject to that… now do ya?
my creative flow is just below a buckle of good intentions
starts gung-ho that creative flow peters out in soft circumventions
my ruminative woe trumps stimulative go and chuckles at native pretensions
my creative flow is thusly below a belt holding up my conventions