Who said poetry was a good thing?
Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference.Today is National Poetry Day, But before you skip
And shout hurray,
Remember it's easy
For you to cheer
If poetry comes
One day a year -
It's very hard
To cheer and shout
If every day
You churn it out!
Once there was
A man called John,
Who could really turn
The poetry on,
And so they signed
Him up to write
Reams of the stuff
By day and night.
Now see him slumped
Across his desk
In weary atti-
Tude grotesque.
Hear him groan
And raise his pen,
And see him drop
The pen again.
How could he possibly
Finish this verse
When every line
Made him feel much worse?
For this young man,
I regret to say,
Was not a poet
For just one day.
No - every day
He slaved so hard
To churn out rhymes
For greeting cards!
His job it was
To bill and coo
And write: "This Special
Day's for you !"
Or: "Mother dear,
For all the years
When you have wiped
Away our tears!"
Yes, that was another
One he'd penned.
Oh God! Where would
It ever end?
Cards for brothers,
And wives and sons,
And golfers and veg-
Etarians.
He even issued
Hospital verses
("Thanks for being
Such great nurses!")
Or lines designed
To celebrate
Last week's birthday
("Sorry I'm late!")
And all he ever
Wished to do
Was state the opposite
Point of view.
How he longed to
Write instead:
"Father, I hope
You'll soon be dead"
Or, "Mother, you never
Cared for us
- Go out and walk
Beneath a bus!"
No more saccharine
Not one joke,
Just: "Happy Birthday.
I hope you choke."
And his hospital card
Would really say:
"Get ill soon -
And stay that way!"
Poor John! Who once
Was young and gay
(In a cheerful, not
A sexual way),
Who loved to mix
With other folk,
And drink, and sing,
And crack a joke,
Beneath the weight
Of writing verse
Grew cantank-
Erous and worse.
The strain of writing
Loving rhyme
Finally got to
Him in time.
His heart at last
Refused to melt
The more he wrote,
The less he felt.
And finally
He gave up hope
And turned into
A misanthrope.
So when you next
Praise poetry,
And the good it can do
For humanity,
Remember John,
Whose life was wrecked
By poetry's daily
Poisonous effect.
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments