The Mood of Music

Pop, the leader of the age,

Confined in today's mainstream cage,

Who's designed to give what the masses want

While every station encourages her flaunt.


Rock, the rebel, born of rage,

Whose goal is to break the decibel's gauge,

Inciter of feelings revolutionary,

"The Devil's Music," approved only rarely.


Techno, the computer's musical wage,

Where software and programs replace the page,

And noises and beeps comprise its face.

Its only goal: to "drop the bass."


Rap, the words of those deranged,

All bare, no talent, no melody, no range,

The poet's naked feelings, spit out on a mic,

A loud and brash rant, the two are alike.


Classical, the olden days' golden sage,

Who waved the baton like an ancient mage,

Tossed to the side, outdated, ignored,

His most recent achievement is making youth bored.


Everywhere you look, some music is hated.

Someone's taste is wrong, it seems to be fated.

Some genres will rise, and others must fall.

All I have to say is "What's wrong with liking it all?"


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