Now let me write you something just for fun,
So I'll enjoy the doing, you - what's done.
It must be furnished with rich rhyme for you,
For, to your thinking, rhyme's what poets do.
Recalling larks aloft which, as they fly,
Pour melody to Earth from summer sky,
Your poets scribble on the page and bring
To voice a consonance through which words sing
When ordered where they match to make them zing
And utter truth or merely "ting-a-ling".
So here it is, then, fully fledged and done -
Has it attained its aim of giving fun?
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