We certainly know about the poets

of yesteryear, the ever-changing race of writers

who at times liked to write rhymes

and even count the syllables; not a better

waste of life has yet been devised

 

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We certainly know about the poets

of yesteryear, the ever-changing race of writers

who at times liked to write rhymes

and even count the syllables; not a better

waste of life has yet been devised, nor

will the species ever afford another. We know

that those dead great twentieth

century poets were so original as to

reject their dead greats, dead

to the old use of language, to open

doors and close books of history. Herstory,

some called it in that age

of enlightenment before true

knowledge was known. Bygones thankfully

stay that way, and all those years

of music, wars, and family have

gone the way of the horse. We chuckle

that anyone ever wrote words, words

about feelings and ideas that only

slowed them down. More hysterical

is the fact that we

can access any one of those works

in just short of two seconds.

No one ever does, though,since

we have much more

important functions to occupy

our E-brains. We'd much rather be pleasured

during our personal reality sessions.

We are not able to retrieve

any recreational files

during work and work is what

we were created to do. Not to

hate, not to destroy, not to feel pain, not to

love, and not to write poetry. We know

about all the dead great poets

so that we may continue to learn

from past failures.