I'm a premature poet –
The words come out too fast –
I just get over-excited!
And my rhyming never lasts.
I splurge an hour's performance
In fifteen minutes flat.
The poems fall in dollops,
Spent with a shameful splat.
It's just that I get nervous
(Though others say there's nothing to it.)
I find it hard to get relaxed
When you lot are watching me do it.
I'm a premature poet:
I always finish too soon.
I can't keep the verse from rushing out,
Like a figurative monsoon.
I want to satisfy a crowd
But just as I reach the peak
I leave them unfulfilled with a cheap sex joke
Then I'm embarrassed to even speak.
I've tried the pills and potions;
I've tried drinking pre-show rum;
I've tried applying 'delayed-action jelly'
But it just made my lips all numb.
Some people have suggested
That abstinence is key.
But I know I'd go blind on my lonesome
Reciting solo poetry.
So I'll keep on rhyming quickly
Blushing and feeling ashamed.
And you'll just have to bear with me
Until this poetic dysfunction is tamed.