There was a man, a wizened man,
Who lived as only poets can
Within a beat-up camper van.
And in that van he ran a school,
Presenting as a precious jewel
The poet’s magic golden rule:
“Make it rhyme, every time! every time!”
So all his students rhymed their words
And struggled with their birds and turds.
(And time sublime, and love above,
And worlds unfurled for you, my girl.)
But he said “Rhyme it till it hurts!”
For he was a poet
And he know it, he know it.