nostalgesia….

When I were a lad all good poetry rhymed
And had rhythm and metre and style.
Spoken aloud t’ words thundered or chimed
(Which made learning t’ buggers worthwhile.)

Back then, poets wrote about poetic things
Like Greek urns, or that Burns piece on mice;
Or t’ lad who remained up on deck ’till well-singed,
And t’ Raven I thought were quite nice.

Ornithologists, most of ‘em: keen on bird guff,
Allus rattlin’ on about sparrers,
Or nightingales, owls (whether hooting or stuffed; )
Even chickens that haunt wheeled red barrers.

Em’s immortality, Bill’s narcissisity,
Albatross Sam and Jack’s pitiless whore;
Alf’s equine massacre, Will’s domesticity,
Paradise John, Hal’s monotonous squaw.

Proper poets they were, writin’ verse with their quills:
Red roses and summers’ days, gold daffodils,
Blue hills remembered, the riffin’ of “If”;
(No rude stuff ’bout blue pills for members unstiff.)

Mighty rulers of yore, inspirational muses:
Them’s suitable subjects a real poet chooses.
Like everything else, verse has gone to to the dogs:
I’m blamin’ it all on these new-fangled blogs….