Random Apparitions

I don't know why I did it; let's call it therapy,

I suppose I'm out of touch with modern poetry.

Or just too old and grumpy for this modern stuff.

I've tried to understand it, but haven't had much luck.

I don't know why I do it; maybe it's a curse.

But now and then, I need to rattle off another verse.

I wake up of a morning, and lying there in bed,

Start putting words together, somewhere in my head.

I might stop it if someone tells me they're no good,

Or I might slash their tires, and write another book.