We ordered him to write a verse.
The poet laboured night and day,
With little rest and with no pay,
And penned the best he could muster.
But as time passed, we feared the worse;
Now his ode has lost its lustre.
Its shiny eloquence has gone,
Its bounce and pace is weighted down
And, like a fading seaside town,
The content has slipped out of date.
There is an air of dying swan
In rusting rhymes, so second-rate.
How has it lost its spark so fast?
The sell-by date has reached the bard
Yet he once seemed quite avant-garde.
It shows how quickly fashions change
And lines of words aren’t built to last.
New stuff, though, seems beyond our range.