The Page Turner

As I start to write Some lines scribbled in rhyme The poetry just ain’t right Unlike Paul’s Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and thyme Countless leaves to waste Unfinished like an aborted child This poetry has no taste My art seems to have gone wild Impregnating every virgin page This Casanova’s one night stand The heavens have come down with rage Yet no commitments for the golden band Good providence eventually prevails Needn’t write anywhere hereafter He’s found the page that’ll end his travails The poetry’s right, the pen and page live happily thereafter