Call me old-school
But I’m prisoned in a time
Where it isn’t poetry
If it doesn’t really rhyme.
Like a symphony of words
That abruptly changes melody
It pierces my senses
Can this count as poetry felony?
Subscribing to the old testament
I feel like a legit fighter
A crusader of the dying art
You can call me a strange writer.
With conjugations and gibberish
For weapons of survival
I’ll make it work, no matter what
It’s time for some revival.
Rhyme rhymes with thyme
Who cares what it’s to mean?
A rebel, I live dangerously
Because I’ve found my Billie Jean.
My deep thoughts on paper
Don’t seem quite as profound
What must I do to cure this ailment
To my sing-song rhymes, I’m bound.
