Some say to me change your style of writing or if not give doggerelizing away
Success I’ve not gained though I’ve tried hard perhaps I should heed what they say.
The brown butterflies and their white cousins in the Parkland am I any different to they
They only live to mate and create their own image and they seem to grow old in a day
Their children next year will replace them in a few days they grow old and die
And though their life span is much shorter are they any different to I?
Rhyme verse is as dead as the dodo and few things ever do seem to last
And the future is all that should matter though I am a man of the past
Suppose change for the better is happening and nothing is sacred to time
And the twenty first century style of poetry will suffer the same fate as rhyme.
Old style poetry is not for young people they seem to reject it offhand
And their ways are different to my ways as different as earth is from sand
I know I’m not well educated and what I do I don’t do well
But how could they rate the great poets without those who pen doggerel.
My better days are long behind me though I will live for as long as I can
I would rather die old in my nineties than young as a remembered man
I’ve grown older but not any wiser and what hair I’ve got left is quite gray
And though I will not live to see the demise of modern poetry that is bound to happen one day.