The original piece:
Poetry, a useless thing,
For those who cannot simply sing.
For if they could, t’would be a song,
Not just some rambling ten lines long.
Poets, always wasting time,
With stanzas, rhythm, verse, and rhyme,
Standing there, talking to beat,
As if it were some splendid feat.
Poems, wastes of paper are,
Are still so popular thus far,
Written down or read aloud
By those with too much time endowed.
Why are they so big, you ask?
How do poets in glory bask,
And go down in history?
To me, it is a mystery.
And the follow-up:
In retrospect, I must confess,
I owe most poets some redress.
In haste I spoke, so haste I require
To pull myself from this critical mire.
Poetry, it ain’t so bad,
So long as it is with meaning clad,
Or humor or something to pass the time
But it better have some kind of structure or rhyme.
So I take back the insult I made that day
(I hope that this keeps rabid poets at bay).
With a new title, though, it could really ring,
As “Free-verse Poetry, A Useless Thing”.