A Limerick, I think

Kitchen Sink

A not-so-good poet named Crow
Said proper forms she didn’t know.
“Write of lost glasses;
See if it passes,”
Said Friend BB. “Give it a go.”

Crow labored long o’er rhyming “sink,”
Thought of pink, link, dink, stink, and think.
At last she gave up
And turned to her cup,
Which she drained of tea in a blink.

What can I write about jig saw,
Crow ponder’d, her brain sore and raw.
It cuts like a dream
Through plywood or beam –
How about that? Crow censored, “Nah.”

Writing poetry is hard work,
Be it Crow, Englishman or Turk
Who sets hand and brain
To writing quatrain.
I’ll stop before it starts to irk.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore