A Note on the Fact that Everybody and His Brother Writes Poetry on the Internet but Nobody Reads It

Many people today are writing and in a legal sense publishing verse
On the Internet. Admittedly some of it is bad, and some, is worse,
But that is not my concern today:
Actually, some efforts are rather gay,
In the older sense of that word,
And they do not merit the proverbial bird.

Now, many people who haven’t had the benefit of an expensive education
Deduce through a process of mere ratiocination,
That they’re better off warbling their native woodnotes wild in a manner that pays no respect to rhyme
And less even that to meter, which is nothing more than keeping time.
However, I say to you birds of a feather
As you flock together,
Consoling each other that your poems have no meter or no rhyme
Not because the boss is peering over your head at the bank and therefore you don’t have the time,
But because you’re anguished and Beat by this modern world
Into which thirty-plus years ago you were hurled:
There’s no such thing as free verse
And it’s a good thing too:
It’s structured by what the Greeks called your daemon, that imp perverse,
And ff it’s any good, it takes control of you.
Eliot’s Waste Land was not “free”
Guy’d read too much poetry…
Couldn’t help but repeat
Themes he picked up on the street.
“This music crept by me over that water”
Was just some bloke in a pub singin’ about a certain Mrs Porter and her daughter.
Point is whether it’s something new
Which it usually is when it comes out of you,
You being in a scientific sense yet another combination, mathematically unprecedented, of DNA and RNA
Hey hey hey.
Anyhow, if you get the meter right, the rhymes of traditional verse usually follow,
Where rhyming is a rather childish thing, like dis stuff, rather hollow.
And there’s one thing of which you can be certain
Is that almost nobody except maybe your Mom will read what you’ve writtain.
This is not because it sucks in most events
Although that might be true in some arondissements
It’s because rock and roll has completely destroyed our ability
To read or listen to poetry.
In dat jungle boogie, you see,
The music recaptures the minstrelsy.
Which is not necessarily, mind you, a bad thing as long as Bob Marley or Elvis Costello or somebody like that is gonna wail,
But at times some efforts can be crimes meriting a spell in jail,
Such as that deathless anthem I Bin Through Da Desert Onna Horse With No Name,
A popular rock tune but unredeemably lame,
And, sad to say, some of the stemwinders and crowd pleasers of Celine Dion,
A leggy French Canadian chanteuse who sometimes warbles not having put many clothes her willowy body, upon
Which takes some flan to be certain in the winters of Canada
But as to her overall singing ability, the less said, the better had ya.

Anyway, big fella, don’t get me started you know how I get
On that, I’m willing to lay money: on that, I’m willing to bet.


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