Once upon a midnight dreary, a poet said "Oh, stop that!
you must not 'borrow' from sir Poe; not even in a top hat."
I said, "Hey, wait a minute, bub-- I've got a right to borrow.
In fact, I'd like to borrow ten, and give it back tomorrow."
The poet scoffed and kicked me out into the streets so rainy,
adding as he locked the door, "Now figure that out, brainy!"
I wandered lonely as a cloud... until he stood before me,
declaring, "Now, I've told you once: you really start to bore me!"
"But it's hard to poet-ize these days without a little 'borrow'...
I'd create my own immortal lines, but can't... and thus my sorrow."
He sighed. "Just write your verses true, with words of your own choosing."
I said, "But who would want to read a rhyme with words like schmoozing?"
"You'd be surprised," he said so dry. "There are readers of all kinds."
I had to smile, until he added, "Some have lost their minds."
He left me there to write this poem, and here I am to say:
This year-end verse is all for you ...so hip hip hip hurray.
Bonus bad joke:
A guy walks into a bar.Â
"Ow!" he exclaimed as he rubbed his head.