The Leonids.


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.