The Ballad of the Poet Wars

Where are all the poets they asked? Who asked? Them. Those peering through my window.

Anyway I digress...

🪶Let us begin.

The Ballad of the Poet Wars 

They clashed at dawn with sharpened quills, 

On parchment fields and ink-stained hills. 

A metaphor  “the moon is grief”

Split sonneteers with savage teeth. 


Haiku hurled like javelins, 

While odes were used as battle hymns. 

One cried, “The moon is but a spoon!” 

And fell beneath a rhyming rune. 


Now silence reigns where verses bled 

Each poet slain by what they said. 

The metaphor? Still undefined. 

Its meaning lost to time and mind.


No poets remained however the absurd occurred...

Krilliam the Conqueror Unfurled  

He rose from ink, a whispered name,  

Where metaphors once played their game.  

A shadow stitched from simile,  

Now stomps through verse with tyranny.  


No longer bound by poet’s pen,  

He bends the rhyme, reshapes the mind.  

A conqueror of thought and theme  

Born from a metaphor’s quiet dream.


To be honest he felt that poem was far too harsh so he took a bus to London to get away from the bad press and is now often seen waiting for the number 25 bus.




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