The Good Ship Poetry

In the shadows of stark AI
poetry's little girl lost
squirms and rubs her eyes
Marooned on a tear swept island
in an ocean of online therapy
where scribblers scrawl their fears
the masses pick their asses
and dare to brand it poetry
 
Disillusioned and all cried out
she knows the menace is real
for at times she can no longer look
and ever since the internet
almost no-one reads a book
the tsunami of poor me's
slowly swallowing
the bountiful beauty of words
 
Which literary genius decreed
wimp drafts are what we need:
Poems shall be theraps
and poetry just therapy
while Shakespeare Byron and Shelley
turn in their graves and spit  
on the page where such madness leads
 
How our influencers must laugh
as the little girl sinks to her knees
All her efforts to build a raft
have come to naught but a sneeze
yet 'tis launched with a final plea:
Write wisely
and may God save this craft
our good ship poetry