A friend sent me this piece which was written by Steve Bailey and I just thought it was well worth sharing here. It's rather long but well worth the read!

Come the Revolution

A new day is dawning, the fawning will cease,
You'll soon get a call from the Bardic Police.
They wander around like a Cumbrian cloud;
Their remit is simple: no poems allowed.

The first thing they'll do is, they'll jail all the poets,
The free-versers, free-cursers, go-with-the-flowets,
Sad tree-huggers, mad buggers, plods and emoters,
Those limerick loonies and I'll-get-my-coaters,

De-dum, de-dum merchants, the ones who can't spell,
The nuts who write epics on heaven and hell,
The angries, the Musies, the minimalists,
Declaimers who froth at the mouth and shake fists,

The delicate flowers on a spiritual high,
Unspeakable egotists, pregnant with 'I',
The ones who write verses in praise of their dogs,
Back-of-an-envelope types with crap blogs,

The ones that on reading inspire you to think,
The ones you daren't read lest they drive you to drink,
The beardies, the weirdos, the hermits in caves,
Radical poets who fail to make waves,

The rhymers, good timers (and good-timers too),
The ones you can't read unless feeling quite blue,
The ranters, the ravers, the cravers of fame,
The ones only published because of their name,

The naturists (naturists? Not them in the buff;
The greeters of tweeters and all that there guff),
Outdoorsers who chronicle beauty in midges,
Modernists copying notes left on fridges,

The adjective addicts and those who use none,
Depressive metricians, those just having fun,
War poets, poor poets (wholesale and retail),
Those who describe anatomical detail,

Those who hide poems in densely packed prose,
Those who write vertically, those who use rows,
Sky writers, wry skitters, Myspace abusers,
Prize-winners, runners-up, also-rans, losers,

Brutalists, Fruitalists, isn't-this-cute-alists,
Original Beats with their varied offshootalists,,
Kid-bards, yard-bards, older-is-betterists,
Chip-on-the-shoulderists, bold crossword-setterists,

Embarrassing teenagers, lovelorn and spotty,
Victorian throwbacks who frankly seem dotty,
Those who think writing's a job for the pissed;
(They're automatically top of the list.),

The dry wits, the sly gits, the two-fag-knock-offers,
I've-done-my-day's-quota-it's-time-to-clock-offers
The sci-fis, the singers, the bringers of laughter,
The ones that confound you, becoming yet dafter,

Romantics, fanatics, ecstatics and hicks,
Visual poets with eye-catching tricks,
The druggies, the huggies, the bad ones who mug us,
The ones who think language is just there to bug us,

The doggerel dabblers, writers of vision,
The prolix, the proles and the Lords of Concision,
The chattering rappers who ape MC Hammer;
There's room for them all in the ex-poets' slammer.

The ancients, the moderns, the ones in between,
The ones whom you've heard of, the ones never seen.
The Day of the Philistines coming, my friend;
And it's just you and me who'll be free at the end