RHYME Damn You!

I'm sick of reading poetry
That doesn't rhyme or scan
And I'm sick of the pretentiousness
Of Literary Man -
I hate the blatant snobbery
And 'artistry' of those
Who think they've souls of poets
Though they write such deathless prose,
I accept that there's a time and place
For poems that don't rhyme
And that every work is valid
And that censorship's a crime
I agree that many writers
Who produce such rhymeless verses
Are indeed tremendous talents
And deserve their bulging purses
But it seems to me that many folk
(Who have no skill or wit
And no grasp of basic synonyms
To find a word that fits)
It seems to me that these buffoons
With writing aspirations
Who see the sweat and toil of it
As needless perspiration
Tend to think that rhymes are dirty
Simply for the lesser lights
And not fitting for a Literary
Giant of their height
And so they simply spread some words
At random on their page
"There you are - that's artistry
Straight from a golden age!"
When in fact it's just pure rubbish
But because it doesn't rhyme
Is perceived as total genius
In Literary climes:
'See the anguish in those words!
Spoke through a poets soul!
Every word a masterpiece
To treasure 'till we're old!"
They'll publish it in triplicate
And throw it some awards
Simply 'cause it's got no metre
And it makes the reader bored,
But send them verse with rhyming
And you'll get it back next day
With a note that says "We're sorry
Darling - rhyme is so pass?!"
Whither Kipling, Keats and co?
They did some fair old rhymes
And what about Spike Milligan?
A giant of our time!
If Kipling was around today
His work would be confined
To his PC and his notebooks
And the corners of his mind
Because publishing just has no room
For people that can write -
It's jam packed with celebrities
And Literary Might,
You might get writing published
If you've acted on the telly
But there's no space for Milligan
Or Byron, Yeats or Shelly
Only for the famous
And the Literary whores
Who see the act of writing
As a way to open doors,
So I'm sick of the pretension
And I haven't any time
For the view that something "Meaningful"
Just simply cannot rhyme,
But I'm sad to say that my disgust
Seems mine and mine alone
The world has moved away from rhyme
And left it lying prone
The art of verse is dying
Stabbed by Brutus in the back
(But that's alliteration
So we can't be saying that)
Sad and unlamented
Rhyme has simply passed away
Usurped by false pretensions
And by poems dull and grey.