Youngest daughter Miss Hissy has a tendency to go feral (mad as a meat-axe). She has a school English assignment, where she has to write five poems in different styles. There's haiku, free verse and narrative (what's the difference?), something else involving adjectives and verbs, and the rhyming couplet.
The other night she was taking forever to get her rc together. Nothing worked, it was a dog's breakfast and she was growing more and more frustrated (lots of pacing the room like the mad wife in Jane Eyre - scary stuff).
Just to rev her up, I jotted down a rc in about 60 seconds. I would have been dead meat had there been any knives lying around.
Here's the witty pome
that nearly broke up a home:
My mother thought she could cook
Without the help of a recipe book
She got the butter, eggs and flour
And was going strong for half-an-hour
Stirring, shaking, frying, beating
Baking, soaking, oven heating
But then, before our very eyes
The cake fell flat, it wouldn't rise
The pie crust burnt, the quiche just sucked
Eggs went flying, we all ducked
My Mum is not the best at cooking
What a relief she's so good looking
I know, I know... I won't be giving up my day job anytime soon.
