He Said To Me

He said to me you pen your slipshod verses of a distant place far north and far away
And of old fields in view of bracken mountains where hawthorns wear their white blooms of the May
Your old rhymes like you do seem out of fashion you do seem stuck in a time warp somehow
You fail to realize the past has gone forever and what only matters is the here and now

You often write of the Cails and Finnow rivers that ever to the Blackwater does flow
Down from the high ground by the bracken mountains through low lying fields where rushes in clusters grow
Where in the Spring and in the early Summer nesting birds sing on tree, bush and hedgerow
And where hidden in the high grass and the rushes the shy and elusive male pheasant crow.

For many years you have been a rhymer one of the addictive and die hard rhyming buff
And in close to four decades of penning you have written a whole heap of rhyming stuff
Without reward or any recognition you add to your huge total every day
You must be one with a rhyming addiction at least that's how it does seem anyway

He said to me in the twenty first century the old fashioned rhyme and the ballad and song
One can truly say are now well out of Season back in the nineteen fifties they belong
I hope that my truth does not offend you when i say to you that you are not a poet
You are just one more old fashioned rhymer and not anyone that is worthy of note.