This is not poetry.
No embracing the wonders of the universe
Or deafening you with rhetoric.
No apple blossom aromas
Or vistas wide and clear.
No Romance or wisdom,
Just a pint of beer.

My small talent for words
Came from Mum and Dad,
And I take no credit for that.
If only I had read more,
Instead of being a brat.

My ego is exploding,
I’m ever the bighead.
Couldn’t care less about my critics
And sleep easy in my bed.

For once I’ve started rhyming,
That’s a change for me.
Prefer to be unshackled,
My verse just running free.

It’s time to hit the pub now.
I’m only here for beer.
But I’ll be back again to type,
Never have a fear.

Paul Butters