A Poem

There was a certain Poet with much rhymery by verse,
And his poor mocking Rival had procrastination's curse.
Full witty was this poet, yea, his words rang so grammatical,
His topics dull were but absorbed by rhyme-schemes mathematical.

Did he, when writing poesy, perhaps the wrong Muse smooch?
To College Rhymeschemelogical for him mayhap we'll vouch,
His brilliantly clunky words no human meter bear,
But as a Poet excellent his rhymes are always fair.

And having mastered th'only part of poetry e'er mattering,
He gazes at his Rivals work- his laughter's sound is shattering.
The Poet is superior, and blogs so very frequently,
He nags and scorns his Rival for not writing thus subsequently.

For after all, at every call, on every single day,
Of every week and month, the Poet writes his heart away,
While his benighted Rival, coward! makes verse with great caution:
Ha! Knowing Complex Rhymes, the Poet heeds no such fool's notion.

The Poet stands in Triumph, Rival dragged behind in chains:
To write, the Poet laughs- he will not take such silly pains:
He's mastered all there is to know of all poetic skill,
And now's content to mock his foe for not writing his fill.

And thus, stood straight, not writing, high above, with jeering tongue,
He fails to read his Rival's blog when a new poem's strung.
The Poet writes a ton each day, and therefore he is Better,
Which is wherefore he ne'er again need write a single letter.

Glory

Within a coffee-shop I think:
Upon a bench of crafted wood,
As I imbibe my sweetened drink
I dream of noble things and good:

The shelves of books rise high above.
What dwells within their written lines?
The whisper in each paper glove
The wists of former times refines.

Within each dwells great words of old,
Scribed down in past days long forgot,
And relics they stand, stories told:
But what was each its writer's thought?

These texts recount of glories vast,
Of deeds, adventures, scholar's tomes:
As real as now, 'twas real the past,
And each these legends reached their doomes.

Both foundations and monuments
They stand to their posterity:
Displaying glorious excellence,
While built on with austerity.

But pray, what remains presently
But dusty shelves? Parchment and mold.
The ancients see their children's pageantry;
But souls are cold, no heart is bold.

Old weeping wisdoms stand so high,
With all their glory scarred and frayed.
Immortal words are asked to die,
By heirs who have from fathers strayed.

But shall this glory pass away,
Heroic aeons last no more?
Let it not be- let each man pray
A hero's heart to have at core.