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Natural Selection

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From the days of Billy Shakes

Writing has come a long way,

But the problem is that now

There is nothing left to say.

Every tragedy has been told,

Every love story used,

My thoughts are like finches

That are beakless and abused.

There is no new plot,

No twist left unturned,

By the minds that came before me

Who have stolen every last word.

For by now these words have been weathered

By the harsh hand of tie,

It's only fair that Mr. Webster write a new book

Before I can write mine.

Today no one cares

About these opinions, you see?

How can you become one of the greats,

when you're from Generation Z?




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