When poetry has hit the skids
We fall back on the Leonids.
Darting through the inky sky,
They flash upon the poet’s eye.
We take our pens and write a line
That makes the literati pine.
But finding rhymes for Tempel-Tuttle
Causes us to be less subtle.
To streak across the sky at night
Is what I yearn with all my might.
To burn up in the atmosphere,
is ev’ry poet’s brief career.