Poetic Assasin

If poetry should die, I want to be the one to drive a knife through its heart, And twist it till I hear its final cry, Eve though millions would be hurt, I want to be the one to do it, I killed it, Then I would look into its sad eyes, Make it realize that I lay it to rest, I’ve natured it and now its time to pay the prize, I put it out of its misery for the best, I would probably mourn about it, But I killed it, Lay it on a bed of roses, Sing dirges and curse the hand that killed it, Put it in a grave full of crescent moons and crosses, Put a bounty on the killer like a bandit, I may not have created it, But I definitely killed it, Then I would go down history, As the poet who killed poetry, In a quest for poetic justice I archived immortality, Sometimes blood stained hands can be legendary, It may seem as a pun to have fun about killing it, But I sure as hell killed it tonight,