Another Stinkin' Poem

I used to like to read a poem,
Those lines from bye and bye
Sometimes I'd read 'em till I knew 'em
For fun; I don't know why

Some were silly, some were trite,
And some were way too long.
A few put up an awful fight
The words seemed kind of wrong.

Linger not on boring lines,
Good bits can last a while
I frown a bit as William pines,
Spring flowers bring a smile.

Then Teacher said “Let's write us one,
A little one at least.”
That's when I learned that far from fun,
Writing one's a beast!

So then she said “Let's make it two-
No, write me up a bunch.
And when your brain's a lump of goo
I'll go out to lunch.”

We fought for days and days on end,
Those horrid lines and I.
All those words to try and bend
As for me, I thought I'd die.

Then I found it doesn't matter;
Teach can't tell me I'm wrong.
If words count right; syllables don't shatter
And subject lines are strong.

What I want to say stays in my head,
My lines don't sing but never mind.
I do my bit then go to bed,
The grades the same I find.

So now I don't like poems much,
To write 'em or to read.
A line so lame it needs a crutch,
Or one that fills some need.

They're all a pain, both good and bad,
To read them makes me sigh.
I think perhaps that I've been had,
And I hope the authors fry.

It's a comfort that I own,
As I sweat and swear and curse:
My livelihood when I'm all grown
Won't include the metered verse.

Yes, it's a comfort when I'm lost,
A simple truth I'd say:
It's a bet that Robert Frost
Didn't write to get an 'A'.