While sleeping in my bed Rhymes escape my head. I maunder them around Then write them down And publish them instead.
That is, those worth keeping That I write while sleeping That often turn out to be Happily approved by me. A poetic parrot peeping.
An internal rhyming thing. Almost an eternal ping That runs through my brain There to sometimes remain And bubble back upon rising.
Sometimes it wakes me up And I brew myself a quick cup Because at that time In search of a rhyme That goes with boxer pup or buttercup.
I havenβt made a dime from this My middle-of-the-night museβs kiss. I just gleefully scribble And sometimes I giggle No matter itβs a hit or a miss.
Far be it from me to complain. For so many poems remain That turn out terrific That Iβm labelled prolific. Either that, or poetically insane.