A poem in ottava rima by Paul Burgess
Expecting pleasure always, never strife,
You curse existence saying it’s insane
And claim Despair’s your mother, Gloom’s your wife.
Your home you’ve often called the “House of Pain.”
Unmet conditions you’ve imposed on life
Don’t justify the way that you complain.
Refrain from putting poison in your cup—
That’s how to cheer a gloomy bastard up.
“Anagram” (an epigram on the topic–by Paul Burgess; also posted here: https://paulwhitberg.wordpress.com/2014/05/23/poem-an-epigram-on-an-anagram-by-paul-burgess/
A “poem” might become a mixed up “mope,”
Composed by some absurdly gloomy dope.
2 Limericks on the Topic– by Paul Burgess
If to write’s to complain and complain…
And complain, as if life were all pain,
Perhaps I’m no good,
And maybe I should
…complain and complain, and complain.
Some poets will write as if gloom
Were pervading all life to the tomb.
Of one who would write
With a heart that is light,
They’d declare, “For his kind, there’s no room.”