Poets now despise the rhyme,
Or that’s the affectation.
But nonsense is as nonsense does
And what is worse than bad blank verse - -
Gibberish strung upon a line,
Conforming to the fashion?
The wish being father to the thought,
It’s content, not the form, that counts,
And mastery of meaning.
A certain discipline of mind
Is requisite when using rhyme.
So don’t reject the tools at hand,
Misused as they may be.
The means can justify the end.
My point is penned.