Pop, the leader of the age
Contained in today's mainstream cage
Who's made 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
Classic, the olden day's golden sage
Who waved the baton like an ancient mage
Thrown to the side, outdated, ignored
Its 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?"
