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.
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