Poetry isn’t dead, I assure you it’s very much alive
In the past we stayed secluded, but no longer do we hide.
We march the streets of the town square, arms locked and loaded
The evening air filled with the most beautiful words ever spoken.
Reciting the stanzas of our ancestors, from Ms. Brooks to Mr. Hughes
Night after night we try to excite the masses, though our job is never through.
To think that long ago, when these thoughts were penned
Who knew that today they’d still impact the lives of mortal men.
They hold the power to change the world, to bridge this wicked divide
Our fight grows stronger by the day as we battle with pens by our side.
We protest with prose, we march in iambic pentameter
We hold your cities surrounded, poets guarding the perimeter.
Words are our weapons, bullets fly from under our tongues
This fight isn’t for the weak, therefore it’s not for everyone.
Our voices will be heard, the revolution is televised, airing live at five.
We attack the enemy with sonnets, written verse so classic
We put our lives on the frontline, martyred for our passion.
Our fight is long overdue, there’s many battles yet to wage
Until the event of our demise, we’ll continue to scribe the page with rage
Publicly mend our wounds while we bare our souls on the grand stage.
