It Doesn'T Even Rhyme

Long ago, when we were all primordial slime creeping about in the grime, awaiting our time, we decided: poetry must rhyme wars passed, throats slashed swords clashed faces gashed and smashed before children aghast in retaliation against rhymeless trash. the rhyme preserves a tone and stiffens a certain bone in the body of each dusty crone seated on a stump alone gurgling a pome. Now, they try to say that there is a way to wax wordplay void of rhyme, but hey there're still some rules by which you must play, a meaning you must convey. That withered pretense frays more and more each day.