I read the contest rules again, They made it all seem very plain. ‘Write a poem with a rhyme At the end of every line’.
I knew that I would then recite My poem on the contest night. Then all would hear that every line Ended with a perfect rhyme.
It looked so good, I felt so proud To stand and read my work aloud. But when I spoke I quickly found The endings had a different sound.
My poem: That night the stormy wind was rough It rent the air, and tore right through Every tree and every bough. The branches then were stripped, although The leaves clung on and cried ‘enough’ But fell to ground into a trough.
I knew I would not win the prize My poem was only for the eyes The rhymes I wrote were not, I fear Rhymes at all to the listeners ear.