AN/ here is a bit of random… stuff. Its my first fic, so please be nice and tell me what you think!

Ron had always wanted to be a poet. In his third year, he had written a sort of poetry book, which he thought told the story of his life. He'd never told anyone about it, though, as it was too precious to him to be looked at by Harry's and Hermione's tactless eyes.
Four years later he had forgotten about it. One cold, dark, windy night he left it unguarded in his dorm, just when Harry was bored and he was elsewhere…

Harry picked up the book, expecting to find juicy secrets about Ron's love life. Of course, he would never spy on Ron's love life, but as he wasn't there….

Opening the thick notepad, Harry read in wonderment:

Ron's Book of stuff – Mits off!

Macaroni cheese
Macaroni cheese- it's great.
just great!
I love eating macaroni cheese.
Its so… digestible
And oh so cheesy.
If I could cook,
I would cook it.
But I cant.
So I'll leave it to mum
And the house elves.
Because,
For some strange reason,
They enjoy it.
I love macaroni because
It is creamy.
And yellow.
It has stood by me all my life,
With its cheesiness.
If there is one bad thing about Harry,
It's that he doesn't like cheese.
And he laughs at me when
I enthuse about it.
But it's so great
I'm at a loss without it.
So I thought I'd write a poem
About macaroni cheese.

Harry raised an eyebrow, surprised at how his friend had kept this great talent from him for so long. He wasn't much good at quiddich, but boy, could he write poetry. And there was more!

Socks
Every morning,
Around 8:00,
I face a difficult decision.
Purple or green?
Red or blue?
My socks tease me.

Harry has nice socks.
I wish I had Harry's socks.
Everybody loves Harry's socks.
Everybody loves Harry.
Everybody gives Harry nice socks.
With snitches on,
With wands on,
Even with overalls on.
Nobody gives me socks.
Except my mum.
But they're maroon.

So every morning,
Summer or winter,
Spring or autumn,
My trunk is a failure.
It only stocks sad socks.
And I don't want to wear
Sad socks.
I want cool socks
With snitches on.

Harry's socks are so cool,
He even has a pair that
Whistles
Like a sneakoscope.
He says they're Uncle Vernon's
Old ones.
But muggles can no way
Be able to make their socks
Do that, so maybe
Harry enchanted them.
I'll have to ask him
How to do it,
Without him guessing
I want to do it myself
Cos that would just look
Sad.

I heard about a shop
In Hogsmeade,
Which sells lots of socks.
Socks that scream when they get
Too smelly,
Although that could be
Very embarrassing.
There are also socks with broomsticks
That can fly
And socks with feet
Which need their own little socks!
But all I have

Are boring socks.
Muggle socks.
And mum's
Maroon socks.
I'm a failure.

Harry stared in awe at the page. This amazing form of poetry must be close to the wonderful verse of the Vogons, which Harry had read about in a weird book about space he had found on the Hogwarts Express. This outpouring of Ron's heart touched Harry, making him feel emotional. If these poems were to be published, the thought that he was in them was almost too much to bear. He could be famous! People will have heard his name associated with these fabulous works of art! He wept. Then he laughed, cos that wistling in his socks in his third year had been because he had shoved a sneakoscope in them. And Ron had known it, too. He would never understand that boy. Harry stopped thinking and looked down at the next poem. This one was about llamas. Harry didn't know Ron even knew what llamas were. Oh well.

Ode to the llama
Oh llama.
You're so alarming!
With your purple toenails
And your famous
Cheesy Scapegoat.
I have always admired
Your sleepless nights
And lack of appetite,
Because neither of these things
Affect me at all.
I wish I could meet you,
Legendary llama.
Your reputation is precise,
And your turnips are
Growing well
In that little patch in your
Back garden.
Hermione has spoken of you,
You wonderful beast.
With your long neck,
You look like a
Retarded hippogriff
With no wings,
And feet
Instead of talons.
And no beak either.
In fact,
You are nothing like a hippogriff.
But I would still love to meet you
You magnificent creature
From –
Greenland or Peru?
I shall never know.
Because Harry
Is calling me.
I must leave you.
Lovely llama of the west.

Harry was puzzled. Where did Ron get the idea that llamas were anything like Hippogriffs? Well, I suppose they were just as close as any other creature Ron had heard of. Except maybe a Graphorn. But they weren't much like them either. Apart from that- this one had to be the best yet. Turnips in the back garden- classic.

A poem in Rhyme
I'm gonna try a poem in rhyme.
Some people do it all the time!
It can't be very hard-
I've heard Hagrid do it in the yard.
No offence to Hagrid-
But last time he tried we all hid.
This isn't working as I hoped
My poetic freedom has eloped-
Rhyme is just so very restricting,
My poetic eye is misting.
Now it's time to eat my lunch,
Harry has another hunch-
Maybe Black is innocent?
His sanity I now lament.