I hear iambic thumping in my head.
Each time I part my lips I feel some dread.
I wonder if the words that I will speak
Will make me sound like some obnoxious geek.
I cannot seem to quit, though it’s my hope
To speak in prose just like a normal dope.
Perhaps if I can hold my breath inside,
The hiccups in my words will soon subside.
I wonder if this happened to the bard.
He did it once and learned it wasn’t hard,
Then found he didn’t have the will to stop,
Despite his father’s shabby leather strop.
You say you have a great idea for me?
Something called a trochee?
© 2011 Elizabeth Ehrenfest Steinglass, all rights reserved