A Dying Breed:

They roll down my poetic tongue
Those little lines I've spun,
That play so nicely together
Them all sounding just like one.

They travel that forgotten road
Where good poems use to come,
All those rhyming little words
That helped bring all the fun.

Now it's just a deserted trail
That's thirsting for a drink,
From that small town poem
That makes me stop and think.