All I do is end up cursing Slivers of phrases, sawed-off and sweet, Lumbering lines, measured in feet. Those who refuse to follow a muse, Disdain inspiration, eschew punctuation. For verse as rough as naughty old bards.
Supernatural creatures Feel it too, Saw a green little leprechaun, Turning quite blue.
The streaking comet sneaks through sky, After-image tail, icy white. It hangs, it soars in arcing ellipse, Turning dark against the star. It sees nothing. Dying with a splash. He'd lived there since he knew not when.