Roses are red.
Bacon is red.
Poetry is hard.
Bacon.

In all seriousness, and as my D&D group will attest to the time I introduced three “wizened old women” who spoke lines from MacBeth, I can’t write poetry—and by extension, verse—to save my life. I once got a B in an introductory composition course in college, because half of it was poetry (FAIL) and half of it was short stories (#winning). And that’s the least interesting story that came out of that class.