Always the same:

I can’t escape the rhymes.

I’ve tried and tried

At least a thousand times.

 

I’ve tried to use blank verse,

Or keep lines clipped and terse,

But that just made it worse;

It’s like some kind of curse.

 

If I had got a pound

For every rhyme I’ve found,

I’d buy a magic pen

To write prose now and then.

 

But sadly, I have not.

I have not got a jot.

So every line I write

Is doomed to sound quite trite.