Poetry has died.
The doctors shrugged and said, “we tried.”
It died, alone, in a white-washed room
And was taken quietly to a cobwebbed tomb.
It died when people stopped rhyming
And lost all sense of meter and timing.
It died alongside dirty limericks and haiku.
All the clichés had been too much for them, too.
It died with Romeo and Juliet IX,
The destruction of classics, line by line,
When suicide poems became par for the course,
When the world was sucked dry of all its remorse.
The surgeons could do nothing—they watched in despair
As dear old poetry breathed his last breath of air.
They took him away on a cold metal cart.
There goes, my friends, a once-beautiful art.