ABAB

by Chris Butler

I always remember a poem that rhymes,
like the rhythms of heartened nurseries,
able to withstand the wasting of time
through the reprints of obituaries.

Warm words, lying beside a lullaby,
sing the doggerel songs of love sonnets
and quick snippets of quiet passersby,
from those authors mnemonic and honest.

Written anapestic tetrameter
tells immortal stories for centuries,
instilling morals like an ill fever
by repeating recitals in series.

Picture one thousand pens writing at once,
mumbling da-da-dumb as the class dunce.