Paris Karin and I have been debating my latest blog entry. She insists it’s a real poem, while I maintain that it’s a prose poem. According to me, a real poem has meter and rhythm. If there is a rhyme scheme, it’s consistent throughout. Dropping words that sound the same into a sentence pell-mell and with no regard for safety is not poetry—or maybe poetry for the lazy.
As a contrast, I am finally posting a real poem in this blog so she can see the difference.
La Parisienne, by Paris Paul Prescott
There once was a woman from Paris
Whose man said that she was the fairest
But with her dog and a scarf
And macaroons ’til she barfed
She was French so she couldn’t care less.