POEM on my Daughter’s Poem
Laughter, Daughter? Aught? A poem!
Just the gift I’m after, dear.
Ring joy to the rafter here:
Sonnets? Iambs? Yeah, I know ’em.

In tetrameter you wallow,
Trudging slow: A, B, B, A.
Try to find a thing to say
Petrarch never said. No hollow

Imitations of romantic
Declarations of dull lust!
Surely there is something smarter
And much less pedantic,
Aught that reeketh less of dust.
Make me proud, my winsome daughter.