She is beauty, daughter of Job.
Why do I seem like an old man,
When I'm not even twenty-four?
When did my poems stop rhyming?

It's twelve: twenty-four A M.
And here I am writing--I should be sleeping.

Is it a blessing or a curse
When you'd rather stay up pondering...
Pondering about...stupidity?

Wow, where's the rhythm?
Even the stanzas are breaking up.
It's "poetic fission".
Yes, I think I'll make that phrase up.
Crap, my first rhyme is the same word.

...

Ah, that's not so bad.
I can't let it end on such a bad note, though.
But I certainly don't need to cheer myself up.
Great, there's "up", again.
That's my advise to you, pretty girl:
Only take the LORD seriously.
Seriously.