Typical
My uncle writes a poem
He thinks it's quite a tome
The words don't make much sense
Not even matching tense
But onward he keeps goin'
He asks his brother “What'd you think?”
Between sips of his drink
His brother says, “Good,
you rhymed hood with wood.”
His fingers crossed and a wink
I suppose it's okay for a hobby
Keeps your kids from the nursing home lobby
If the poems are too weak
Like they've sprung a leak
At least you're not gnarled and knobby