This month to write a poem a day
for thirty days — I’m late! I’m late!
I just now saw it — What can I say?
Gross tardiness — oh, how I hate
arriving last! ‘Tis better not
to try — pretend you didn’t know,
plead ignorance! Other paths are fraught
with pain and shame — you mustn’t go!
You beggar for mental anguish! Write,
then, if you must — erase this blight
of guilt — wash your rhymeless sins.
The man of strictest discipline wins.