Prime rhyme time

Of the many pastimes, that I play at sometimes
My favourite thing is the writing of rhymes.
I've fiddled with riddles, since I was but little.
A bad one's a sad one, a good 'un fair chimes.
I grill and I thrill, as I bend to my will.
It's fruity, it suits me, it's lemon and limes.
Unbidden, the words spring to life in my head.
I grab one, I stab one, before they have fled.

They won't go away, they're determined to stay
And dance, in a trance, in a sashay display.
The rhyme in the stanza, for me is the answer.
Each Haiku that I do, a bonny bonanza.
A bee in my bonnet, as I sing my sonnet
To use it, is music, to lose it is chronic.
I'm impelled to, compelled to, I must do, I need ter
Search, nay research, for some rhyme in my meter.

I'll play all the day, for some words that just may
E'en shift me, uplift me, a roll in the hay.
It's easy, it's peasy, it's what poets do
It sneaks in and peaks in, while I'm on the loo.
Sometimes sensational, oft inspirational
Frantic, its antics, my Little Boy Blue.
I'm in it, to win it, I don't often bin it
When my wit, is unfit though, I might have to thin it.

If I get marooned, in the mid-afternoon
By a girl in a whirl, or a dame in a swoon
Have a nail in my pail, catch a thorn in my prune
Anchor my Tanka, before it balloons.
Then I mean, to be seen, to make it a rule
To read to the readers, my audience who'll
Say Hobbo's a laddo, he's nobody's fool
He's sunny, he's funny,  the drool in my pool.

So for humans with lumens, with light in your pen
And actors with factors poetical, then
Stop fighting, get writing, through dictionary roam
Desire to inspire us, and sire us a poem.

Inspired by an original poem by Burges Johnson