To find the right play,
Could take all day,
In the library stacks with the carts and the racks,
You could lose your way.

You think you’ll pick “A”,
But then you stray,
Just go for the middle just like it’s a riddle,
Do it the whimsical way.

So you get on your strutter,
And you begin to sputter,
Like swinging a putter like Tiger Woods’ brother,
Let lies run you deep in the midst of your mutters.

You may now have noticed I’ve broken the scheme,
It’s a poetic freedom that of so many only have dreamed,
The syllables are fast and loose, and soar only once much like a wild Spruce Goose,
But don’t let this syntactical defiance cause you to lose compliance,
With this style of poetry remotely in vogue,
In the words of a diva more dangerous than Shiva,
“All the hos knows that I’m on the flo’, ho’,
And they can’t hang with my type of swang,
I ain’t tryin’ to say I suck every dangalang,
But the the juicy ones, with the tip of the tongue,
And then they sprung, and conveniently with the right play in their hands.”