I haven’t written a bad poem in weeks. Nor a good one. Ebb and flow, you know. And the day seems to end shortly after lunch. And it’s ink dark before even a hint of evening appetite. It all makes the cocktail hour murky. Which leads to supplemental consumption and mild depression before dessert. And bad poems approximate a sugar buzz.
All that said, here’s a bevy of eye rhymes catalogued in God only knows fashion.