I know I’m a bad person, an erudite of nothing, untutored in all but onomatopoeia and iambic pentameter, exuberant with righteous selfdom, disarranged from all scholarly consonance, heretical of history, ignorant of any recondite explanation, void of even the slightest intellective gurgle, satiated from the drone of alleged perspicacity, puerile in the art of rhythmical composition and generally revulsed by rhyming bromidic dribble.
See, even words can sometimes be a poor way to communicate. But if you try to start making things rhyme…
I’ve been blessed with writing for aviation magazines for some time now. I’ve gotten a lot of mail and e-mail over the years, most of it nice and some of it not. But the one great frustration I have is with people who think I’d like to read their aviation poetry. Let me speak to you directly: I’m sorry. I just don’t read aviation poetry.
Poets have been poeting probably since Lucy was attending raves in Olduvai Gorge. Sometime in man’s very ancient history, someone sat tinkering with words when they no doubt noticed that a couple of words sounded similar.
“Ugg,” our ancestor likely said.
“Wugg!” someone else grinned with that childlike look of discovery.