How Ballad Writing Affects Our Seniors

Oh, I've never writ a ballad And I'd rather eat shrimp salad, (Tho' the Lord knows how I hate the Pink and scrunchy little beasts), But Miss Dixon says I gotto- (And I pretty near forgotto) But I'm sitting at my table And my feet are pointing east.

Now one stanza, it is over- Oh! Heck, what rhymes with "Over"? Ah! yes; "I'm now in clover," But when I've got that over I don't yet know what to write. I might write of young Lloyd Boyle, Sturdy son of Irish soil, But to write of youthful Boyle Would involve increasing toil, For there is so much material I'd never get it done.

Somewhere in this blessed metre There's a crook. The stanzas peter Out before I get them started Just like that one did, just then. But I'll keep a-writing on Just in hope some thought will strike me. When it does, I'll let it run Just in splashes off my pen.

(Wish that blamed idea would come.) I've been writing for two pages, But it seems like countless ages, For I've scribbled and I've scribbled, But I haven't said a thing. This is getting worse each minute, For whatever I put in it I shall have to read before the English class.

'Know where I would like to be- Just a-lyin' 'neath a tree. Watchin' clouds up in the sky- Fleecy clouds a-sailin' by And we'd look up in the blue- Only me, an' maybe you. I could write a ballad then That would drip right off my pen. (Aw shucks)

For the future I shall promise (IF you let me live this time), I'll ne'er write another ballad- Never venture into rhyme.