March in Time

So much I could have written
In dear old March,
Luckily I recorded it on Olympus
It’s waiting like dessicated starch,
Where I sit at the keyboard
And record my backwards rhyme,
With the right kind of incentive
It flows smoothly with a taste of lime.

When I’m driving the road
Stream-of-consciousness thoughts
Burst into spoken whiz words,
I’m rhyme-rapping
Needing a recording tool
Like the capture of flittering birds,
I grab the Olympus recorder
Rattle off those spontaneous
Concepts and bursts of rhyme,
My natural process of thought
In a punctual meter
Every single time.

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