Call that Poetry

There's something I’ve just got to say –
get it off my frigging chest,
though some of you what’s reading this
might consider me a pleb;

a lot of what these poets write,
it makes no sense at all
and a poem that don’t even rhyme
is diabolical!

It stands to reason, don’t it mate?
Take your Tennyson and Blake,
even Shakespeare, when he felt like it,
writ rhymes for heaven’s sake.

You’ll have to make allowances
for a bloke that ain’t too bright,
but in my book, old Wordsworth
was a gaffer what could write.

When walking lonely as a cloud
there was daisies on those hills,
but he used poetic licence
and called them daffodils.

A pukka poet, no mistake,
helped shape our history;
he knew his onions right enough,
a man of brevity.

If he could have his time again,
I’m sure that he’d agree,
a poem’s not a poem
unless it’s poetry.