Every morning at the stroke of eight,
Rusty, a brown squirrel near the back gate
Eyes glued to the kitchen door with laser intensity,
Expecting his pending nourishing propensity
He kept coming. Lorie, my wife, gave him the name.
Felt obligated to honor his beseeching breakfast claim
She spreads for him his favorite peanut buttered toast
She knows from experience he enjoys the nutty treat most
Up he bounds to the patio, sniffing about, his tail perched high
Nibbles each piece, done, swishes his tail, a thankful goodbye
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| Writing Prompt |
Please write a rhyming poem on any subject. |
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Rhyming Contest
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