Poem, that wasn’t a poem
Inquired why it wasn’t so.

“Your author knows not what he does,

Therefore you cannot be,” they rebuked.

“If ignorance precludes art,
How did the first poet pen a poem?” Poem replied.

“Clearly, the first poet knew their craft,

Else they wouldn’t be the first,” they declared.

“But whose rules were they following?”

Poem persisted.

“The poetic rules,

Obviously,” they quipped.

“If the first poet was the first poet,

Was it not a subsequent poet who declared the first poet a poet?” Poem persisted.

“You’re an annoying little prose,

Aren’t you?” they scoffed.

“Please don’t call me that;

I am a poem,” Poem objected.

“You have no meter; you have no rhyme; your line breaks are superfluous,

And your author is naive,” they lectured.

“That’s because I am unique;

If the first poet wrote me what would I be?” Poem posed.

A poem,” they concluded.