This poem is expiring,
It’s starting to go bad.
The jokes are old, the rhymes are cold,
Its best days have been had.
It once was fresh and interesting,
With witty words galore,
But now it’s gone all moldy
Like a cheesy metaphor.
Where once were puns, there now are nones,
Where lines were tight, they sag.
The rhythm’s gone all bloated,
Like a big old inflated grocery store plastic bag.
And even rhymes that once were sharp
Have gone all forced and dull,
Just like the horns that still adorn
A worn-out, tired bull.
Oh read this poem quickly
While it’s still a bit inspired.
Oh please don’t wait—oh no, too late!
This poem just went bad.