Selfie

A poem about a poetic form written in that form

O where are you going - you ponderous tale

Whose ending unfolds with the speed of a snail?

And why must you parrot again and again

A repetitive, tedious, tiresome refrain?

O who gives a fig why Lord Randall so ails

Or doomed Barbara Allen her downfall bewails

Or, fighting at Flodden, King Jamie is slain?

Romantic or tragic your form is a pain.

The Sonnet’s delightful, the Rondeau as well,

And so is the cunningly-rhymed Villanelle,

The Haiku’s compact and the Elegy’s deep,

But you, like a sedative, guarantee sleep.

From medieval roots, like a weed, you survived

And, nourished by troubadours, flourished and thrived

Till conquering Christendom, bland as green salad,

Established at last, you’re baptised as the Ballad!