Working on Rhyme Schemes this week


The dream of Hipto Callico

Hipto Callico, the owner of
A small, brown calico
Would trot to his beige cot
After working the lot
To rest in the bright, slanting
Afternoon light while the purring
Calico rested under his dangling
Shoelaces,

Hipto Callico, after reading
Hemingway, had admired the
Snowy, desolate peak of Kilimanjaro
Like a man delighting in the rays of a
new rising sun

And with a fourth healthy glass of
Jack shaking in his hand like an unruly,
Miniature tempest, he would anxiously
Announce his plan to climb to it’s very
Top, and in hushed voices his friends
Would whisper, is this not a far cry from
His beige cot,

Hipto Callico no longer has fingers on
His left hand, and the wind is screaming
Like a Banshee overhead as the snow falls
Like baseballs onto are shoulders and
Thickly covered heads, I believe one or two
Of the screaming beasts have been set loose
Upon us, but no matter, the team has decided
To descend and Hipto Callico soundly sleeps,
Woven in white sheets like a mummy, dreaming
Of his small, brown calico.


-JW