The Ballad of the Balladeer

When a young boy he had read some ballads
By Francois Villon, that old, French poet
Much known for his nefarious palate.
Enamored the boy, though rare to show it,
Was shocked to see no old man had wrote it,
This poem before him, for he’d thought them lame.
Poetry now he saw was what a game.

Poems he’d been taught at school seemed stale salads
When compared to tossings so heroic
As François Villon’s, villainous yet gallant,
What better role model for a boy is
There than medieval, criminal poets!
And besides his ballads were much to blame.
Poetry now he saw was what a game.

The star eyed boy’s ramblings were much callous
As he bawled other’s taste in art bogus,
While his precious François was the chalice
From which only he had supped, the chosen
One he thought himself till he wrote a poem
That when he read he could only feel shame.
Poetry now he saw was what a game.

He wrote and wrote but sadly could not tame
The ballad, and gave up. With such motive,
Of course, the results would be the lowest.
Poetry now he saw was such a game.

Poetry by Sameen
Read 117 times
Written on 2017-11-26 at 08:40

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Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
I love the sense of humor in this very impressive ballad. Lots of imagination and good writing.

Impressive, love the first two lines of the second stanza, salads and tossing go so well.

Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
I like the ballade form, and I especially cherish the deftness of your rhymes! You've done quite well here.