There is a kind of magic in this form,
Which Shakespeare had adopted early on,
That causes unconsidered thoughts to swarm,
A practice that served well sweet Avon’s Swan.
Though unlike him I’ll never graduate
To greater enterprises or write plays,
I’ll be well satisfied just to create
A book of little songs worthy of praise.
Yet even if they don’t achieve acclaim,
My daily musing is no waste of time,
For, at the least, it is a kind of game,
A stimulating quest for the right rhyme,
Which if well done, then goes on my web page
A place less lustrous that the Bard’s Globe stage.