Words

Words

. . . like those of Henry Longfellow,
‘bout “footprints on the sand of time,”
or “what’s up” instead of a simple “hello,”
these words that do not rhyme—

still convey more than one essence;
more than one meaning do they carry;
a fact that bears no obsolescence,
though our grammar still decays, so scary.

         We were searching for words that sound pretty,
         or words that when combined make new sense.

         We were holding up the hallowed city
         of the past progressive tense.

But now we dwell in the was and will time,
long past the search for truth or allusion,
caring not if words beat or rhyme,
caring not if we leave confusion.

We know no more of gerunds or prepositions;
no clue how to diagram a sentence;
or that "Longfellow the Poet" is an apposition.
We now focus on message; not usage, or even tense.

         We worship those who seem to avert
         the blame for art falling apart.

         And we’ve new ways to make words hurt,
         while abandoning the pursuit of word art.

These little weapons we bring to bear,
would be banned in any other place;
at least respected and made rare,
at least treated like pepper mace.

Instead we cheer for our armored star,
we watch them on CNN.
They yell and scream while they spar,
and we consider them our wise men.

         We have held up up the hallowed city
         of the present perfect tense.

         So let's use words that sound pretty,
         and that, when combined, make better sense.