I don't rhyme. In fact, I don't think I have written anything that rhymes since I was in grade school, but I am trying to get out of my comfort zone.

The man in the moon

enchants my dreams

a fiddle he tickles

for serenading moonbeams.

My monsters he replaces

with Boston baked beans

swans dancing with roses

flying cuppas with creme.

And as I start to waking

the man falls to sleeping

and his fiddle he places

by my dreams for safekeeping.

The End

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