On comes the barbeque, quick as a gun shot.
The grill heated, scraped, and greased
Meats are thrown on; searing the lot.
Scents float round the yard and soon they'll be missed.
For here comes an angry old neighbor to spoil the pot.
No harm, he enjoys our stock (only too much),
The days are getting shorter, oh how I'll miss it such.
(I know it doesnt rhyme too well, and may be a little short but I like it and serves as a reminder to the truth of that last line. And hey, it's poetry...)
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1 comment:
It is poetry indeed, and it needs not qualifications. I quite enjoyed it. What I found more distracting is the rhythm of this piece than the rhyme, but I still very much enjoyed it. I, too, will miss the b-b-q.
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