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So, I like to rhyme. If I could, I would only communicate via rhyme and song. Yes, if only I could…but if I only could I would be fired, detached from the community, and much more irritating to be around than I already am. But that’s only because we don’t live in heaven.


Of all the activities in heaven, some include throwing ball with your dad, skipping rocks, & lots of freestyle rhyming and song

Last year, I started working on a social rhyming site to facilitate the rhyming urge I get from time to time. If you’re interested in testing it out with me, create a login at RHYMEsocial and let’s rhyme together, if you can figure it out (login w/ FB or Twitter). If you can’t figure it out, still let me know if you’re interested and I’ll try to make it more user friendly.

Eventually, I want to move it to, a beautifully good three letter domain I registered a few months ago, which stands for “Rhyme Your Method.” The current site uses as a template my other site flowit that no longer works right. I like that clean interface, though, and will someday improve it and make it easy to create some mad social rhyming.

RYM = Rhyme Your Method. Your method = your unique rhyming style. I know you have one.

The final site will be clean and easy to navigate. But for now, let’s just start rhyming.

The first rhyme to kick it off is to riff on June the fifth. Or start your own on the site. Or simply walk away and pretend you never read this, you sick anti-rhymer.

Here’s my stab at rhyming on today’s date, because really, every day of the year should have a rhyme. No, every day of the year should have at least several.

In this method, I took “fifth” as far as I could go:


I’ve got a riff on June the fifth –

like a logic’s but, then, or, either, if –

like a ski-lift for shifty Sith Lords who snowboard off cliffs –

although an animated gif of Marty’s hoverboard chased by stiffed, though gifted, Biff, crash into filth takes a whiff –


Biff crashes into filth takes a whiff

then long ago a gal named Tiff climbed aboard a bereft, though swift, skiff adrift the makeshift stick shift for travel prose by Jonathan Swift that miffed the witch whose face lift switched on the glitch with a cursed itch that’s now a myth –

or like a smith who tries to sift through an adorned orb he can’t afford cuz he ignored what he swore’d the chore wouldn’t have tore through his forlorn scorned floor, broken WITH –

either this: a clenched fist –

or, if that missed the misty lynch led by the witch, then Sith, Biff, Tiff and smith with a tinge of a flinch dissed by a pinch June sixth by a quarter inch.