The Atrophy of Poetry
Dearest Ezra,
did you ever dream one day,
that all the songs should cease?
No music in the cafes play
since the baddest news arrived
A stone cold note told of the change,
no time to grieve, or make our peace
did it wither, man, or did we contrive
in sympathy with the new and strange?
No church bells rang; no sermons read,
a simple phrase of passing, plain
ol' frowny face; sweet poetry's dead
let no one sing, nor dance again
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