Although Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” is an excellent work in its way, it doesn’t rhyme. I’ve remedied that with the following verses. I post here only the first and last sections.

1

I sing myself, and as I celebrate,
I’ll just assume that you reciprocate;
For all my atoms also are in you,
So I’ll assume you think the way I do.

I loaf, and as I sit here on my ass,
I lean and look at spears of summer grass.

My tongue, and every atom of my blood,
Are generated from this air and mud.
For I was born here, and my parents too,
And theirs as well, and all the motley crew.
I’m now in perfect health, I’m thirty-seven,
And I won’t stop until I get to heaven.

I don’t find creeds or schools to be much fun,
They’re not forgotten, but their time is done.
I blurt out good and evil with each move:
I’m nature at its best; I’m in the groove.

52

The spotted hawk swoops downward through the haze,
And scolds me for my gab and lazy ways.
Well, you can’t translate me, I’m too aloof:
I sound my savage yawp upon the roof.
The last scud of the day holds something back,
It flings my likeness out with all the pack,
As true as any in the shadowed murk,
And coaxes me to finish off my work.
I fly like air, I shake my snowy locks,
I turn to foam, and spatter on the rocks.
I leave myself for dirt and grass to use,
So if you want to find me, check your shoes.
Though you don’t understand the stuff I say,
I plan to keep you healthy anyway,
And filter all your blood and make it nice.
So in the years to come, take my advice:
If you don’t find me, just look somewhere new,
And maybe I’ll be waiting there for you.