Wonder why poetry is in decline,
While not ever writing one lyric line?
There is no experience more perverse,
Than self indulgent poems in free verse.
Your pain, your angst, and existential doubt,
Pretension endured day in and day out.
Deep thoughts, believed you’re the first to discern,
Which all human-kind must now be concerned.
Substance, once required in days gone by,
Now regurgitated thoughts do qualify.
Banal pabulums we already know,
If you can’t be deep, at least have a flow!
Dryden and Pope are cut to the marrow,
When we’re taught to adore “The red wheelbarrow.”
Free verse, written without breaking a sweat,
It’s “like playing tennis without a net.”