A poem riding down the hill,
Decided not to pay the bill.
It galloped breathless, ever faster,
Therefore it dropped in great disaster.
Rode hastily, fell into dirt,
A shameful fall, but didn't hurt.

However, as the poet saw,
The poem had a dirty claw,
He grumbled: "You are not my own,
'Cause you look like a dirty stone!"

The poem crept sadly away,
'Cause poet had refused to play.