Critics of my many masterpieces have described them as "mere doggerel".  I disagree.  I aspire to "mere doggerel".

 

Come gather people wherever you roam

And admit that my parodies made you all groan

You’ve suffered them bravely and stifled your moans

But secretly felt they were mangy

But now I’m relenting; I’d like to atone

For my rhymes they are a-changin’.

 

The blogs that I read about “Rhyme” are adverse

The gist is, “It’s dead and belongs in a hearse;

It’s dated, it’s twee” and suggestions much worse

I can sense your relentless dissuading

And so from now on I shall just write free verse

For my rhymes they are a-changin’.

 

I’ve written some sonnets and odd triolet

And ballads and villanelles all now passé

Whose structures were strictures – a right tourniquet

You’ve mocked that syllabic arranging

So bring out the bunting, “Hip, hip, (hip), hooray”

For my rhymes they are a-changin’.

 

I’ve managed my metre and tried to conform

To write in those neater conventions well-worn

I’ve heard you repeat your tired bleats “It’s a yawn”

But now you can stop belly-aching

No more I’ll complete a traditional form

For my rhymes they are a-changin’.

 

The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast

My colours are brazenly nailed to the mast

Where once I was thought an enthusiast

In future I’ll not be partaking

I reckon this parody might be my last

For my rhymes they are a-changin’.

 

(But you know it won't be!)