Scratch

This is a poem.

I've run out of rhymes,
I've run out of rhymes,
Of all the bad times,
I've run out of rhymes.
I live in a home.
My house is a dome.
My hair needs a comb.
I'm writing a
A what? A what? A what? A what?
Oh, why must a poet just sit on his
Of all
Of all
the terrible crimes,
to say you're a poet
and run out of
Of what? Of what? Of what? Of what?
I think every poet must be a real
Writing verse
is so perverse.
Call the doctor,
call the
The what? The what? The what? The what?
Oh, why must a poet just sit on his
What did you say? What did you say?
You be the poet. I'm going