I don’t like to rhyme
Unless it’s on my time:
Under pressure to find words which sound alike
Such as brave and crave, or strike and bike;
Then trying to make them all neatly fit
Into a phrase here and there that demonstrates wit;
And to do it all in such a small space
Of one hundred words, at a breakneck pace;
For the goal is to finish ahead of the rest
And strut about boastfully with puffed-up chest;
But I’d much rather relax and not get so tense
And let my words flow naturally so they make better sense.
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