Because no new texts are in the public domain,
I decided to write my own
My own.  My own!
My own—
text.

But I ran into a problem.
A problem.
In that nothing rhymes with orange.
Orange.
Nothing ’cept for orange.
Orange.
And I already used it.

Crap.

That’s all right.
That’s okay.
I’ll write a new text anyway.
A text ’bout writing texts.
But nothing rhymes with text.
Nothing ’cept for sexed.
And that’s just really vulgar. 
And nothing rhymes with vulgar.
Nothing ’cept for bulgur.
And what the hell is bulgur?
Oh that’s a type of grain.

Oh the grain is as thick
As an elephant’s…
Trunk!

Oh now, this is inane,
Going on about grain.
Well, it’s at least a text.
Oh hell…text, text, text.  
Well, at least it isn’t orange.

Damn.

Okay…forget all the rhymes. 
The Romantic sublimes.
What I need is length.
So, I must use melismas.
Melismas!  Melismas!

Meli—
…lismas.

Right.  I need rhymes for ‘melisma.’
I want ones with charisma,
But instead this is abysma
Oh, where’s the Pepto Bisma?
Well, I guess this is show bizma!

Memories!
Of when one could set T.S.,
But now it’s just B.S.!
A copyright waste land.
You’d better make haste, and

Unless thou findest that thou likest best
To be acquainted with an antiquated
Shakespearian tongue that long ’twas laid to rest
Thou must seek rights to texts not so outdated.

But you can’t use Frost.
It’s a law suit lost.
A line you never crossed.
’Cause you can’t afford the cost.
No, you must have been quite sauced
To even think of setting Frost!

With art impeding art today,
Who needs to blame the NBA?
Great artists steal, or so they say.
Though this may hardly be Bizet.

The copyright restrictions
Are all just maledictions,
The composer’s worst affliction
Except deadlines and eviction!

So I’ll try to write new poems
Never found in dusty tomes
Yet I find myself unsexed
Feeling vexed and too perplexed
As I search for what comes next
…After “text”

Well, at least it isn’t orange.