A month of poetry can take its toll
Upon the reader and the poet too.
Though topics may be dredged up from the soul,
They often will appeal to just a few.
The poet tries each day to do their best
To strike a chord within each reader’s mind.
But, as your own appraisal will attest,
Such harmony is difficult to find.
And now this final day has come around.
Just one last piece before I rest my pen
And I can dash my notebook to the ground,
‘Tis many months till I’ll need them again.
So this is all that’s left for me to say:
Thank fuck tomorrow is the first of May.