Rhyming's Blase
I've gathered you all here today,
to lament rhyming poetry's death.
Fledgling poets feel it's blasé,
regardless of its rhythm and breath.
Lyrical poetry's a cliché,
though it's been recited for years.
For now, there's a different way
of expressing your fears and tears.
Exiled to the pages of time,
Rhyme died when its critics shunned it.
And its once clear, distinctive chime;
was stripped of its rapier wit.
Beloved, and yet inked by few,
it has slipped into history.
But, when I hear what rhyme can do,
its death becomes a mystery.
Rhyme was laid to rest by freestyle,
let's lift our pens; bid it adieu!
And visit it once in a while,
perhaps, to write a line or two.
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