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Exploring the Realm of Poetic Gibberish, in a Poetic Sort of way...
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#1004479 added February 14, 2021 at 6:05pm
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The Last of the Poets
Writing.Com Entry Id: #827829
Chapter/Entry Title: The Last of the Poets
Last Modified: 09-11-2014 @ 10:27am (reposted first draft 02/14/2021
Poetic story of a king who hated poetry in the dark med-evil times of humanity and a peasant poet thrown in the dudgeon for writing and speaking his poetry.

The Last of the Poets

He was the last of the poets

The Kingdom had known

He sat in a dungeon

Without any Toes

Less ten fingers

Not even a tongue

No nose to speak of

No sense of smell

He was ruthless

This gibberish king

He cut off his nose

To spite the prose

He hated the utterance

of Mellifluous prose

With Fists of Gibberish

He firmly ruled.

Decreed the kingdom,

Poetry free

Not one soul dared write any-Thing

To do so would surely be death.

High crimes against gibberish

The king he said;

I'll cut off your toes

Of any who write.

Mellifluous prose.

One poet above all the rest

He rebelled against the kingdom

Of Gibberish.

One sonny morn

come a-visiting

he came speaking and writing

in mellifluous so sweet

from way over yon

Where the poets lived

He could not listen

He loved poetry so

Enraging the king with a fiery inferno

The wrath of the king was about to unfold

Off come the fingers

The king he declared

Poetry's a crime here

I told you so

But that didn't stop him

With a Quill in his toes

He continued to write poetry

On parchment and scrolls

Till the king got word

And cut off his toes

In public it happened

In the mighty square

The people did gather

They watched in fear

As the king himself

Cut off his toe's

But the poet didn't utter

Not a single moan

He sang in mellifluous

Poetic, prose

With rhyme and rhyme

To the ear harmony divine.

this melody he sang.

Further enraging the ruthless king

he cut out his tongue

then ripped his robe

Off to the dungeon

Off you go you

Without any clothes

Without any fingers

Without any toes

Never the gen

Will anyone hear

Nor read with thy eyes

Your stanza's or prose

You'll not write poetry

Nor with voice

Will you sing poetic prose

Never the gen

He was the last of the poets

The kingdom had known

Not a stanza was written

No rhymes were told

The king he declared

Poetry a crime

And all written prose

So as the legend and story goes

The king he went crazy

From nightmare's it's told

Thousands of poet's

Would visit his dreams

every night

haunting and taunting

by Reciting their poems

even while awakened

as he sat on his throne

he could not shake them

out of his head

He was the last of the poet's

The kingdom had known

He drove the king crazy

Reciting his poems

The king climbed the tower

Way up the top

From way up high

He took a dive

Hoping to die

But splashed in the mote

Still much very alive.

Then come the gators

And ate his gibberish

Him also; Twas his bitter end

Twas the last of his thoughts

So the legend it goes

He died with a poem

Sweet Rhythm and rhyme

Stuck eternally in his head

Declared he did

with his dying breath

Dam you poets

Be dammed to hell

Shut up them stanza's

Cut out their tongue

Cut off their fingers

And toes as well

To my death they drove me

With rhythms and rhymes

Prose and poetry

Twas the last of the thoughts

Dancing in head

As he took his final breath

Now the Kingdom of Gibberish

The Kingdom Mellifluous

Where poets and writers

Write and thrive

Sing in harmony

Rhythm's and rhymes

Sweet prose Mellifluous

So poetically divine.
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