I’m cursed by a great thought that will not rhyme.
I’ve tried so many times to my dismay.
I’m growing old and running out of time,
yet rhyme, this thought does stubbornly betray
and likely will until my angel sings.
I won’t be untrue to my chosen style.
I curse my great thought, since to prose it clings.
My signature method I won’t defile!
What a tragic loss to humanity!
There must be a rational compromise
to this translational calamity!
Oh, why do I intellectualize?
A nom de plume would work fine, I suppose,
then I could repose knowing no one knows.