What do you mean they are also prophets?

Far below, on the beach, were his friends
Half-naked bums
Partying in the sun
There were atheists
There were *** maniacs
The fat old Bumbo was a crazy bartender

I thought I was the only One. The Chosen One
I never knew they came in packs
All of them?
Even Bumbo is a prophet?
You mean to say you make me climb this eyrie-high
To tell I'm just one of them?
I'd rather not be a prophet

And then he asked,
"What are you looking for?"

And I said,
"I'm looking for someone
who can give me thrills,
the roller-coaster adventure kind of feeling.
I'm looking for someone
who is romantic but not boring;
witty but not loud;
smart but not arrogant.
Someone who is everything you are
BUT NOT YOU."

In this pretty,
But little city
People won't praise you for being witty.

If I have a chance
To experience romance,
I know I've changed
For fate has prearranged.

Walking down this lane
Helps me realize I forgot the pain.
Of my past
So it passes me so fast

Look back down that alley
I know I want you to be my finale
This is to my unknown lover.
Will you discover
Me this summer?

In this pretty,
But little city
Where people won't praise us for being witty.

Is a genie blue?
such myths are unclear.
Will a genie grant your wishes?
ridiculous or pure.

In a bottled prison,
will a genie stay?
lounging in cramped conditions
will a genie grey?

Be mindful what is wished
watch each word that is missed
Genies tend to twist a promise.
magic fogs ellipse

Dizzy are these questions
certain I must be,
before I set to seek
a genie just for me.

Bubbles bubble boiling brew
bumblebees and bullies too
busted bridle, bridges burn
buggie babies bob and burp
brush and beast brawl and boast
badly bruised burnt like toast
buttered bread, blueberry blue
better biscuits bake a new
boarder barriers bend and break
bested by a bigger quake
bald barbarians blunder business
bark and berate the only witness
bitter battle burns the brain
blurting out this blissful game

I’d love to write something clever and witty
To capture the essence of Dr Suess in a ditty
But try as I might, the words don’t take flight
And the whole thing just sounds kind of ******

What makes a good poem?
Is it the rhythm? The structure? The carefully placed similes like dog treats and the restricted use of rhetorical questions?
Oh.
If that's the case,
I think I failed the test.
Oh please! Don't leave! Let me try this again!

(A cough to clear the throat)
Ha-HEM.

When one writes iambic pentameter
Doth that make his good prose the worthier then?

...No?

If I write a witty couplet in a rhyme
Does that make this utter **** more worth your time?

Have I got the tempo right?
I need an exclamatory tone!
Rhyming feels better somehow
But it doesn't make trombone.

My jittery jilted stream-of-consciousness different-line-length punctuation-less word-***** onto a page-
Pause for breath-
Can never match the likes of Donne or Keats;
But I've bled my soul and fire onto this page
And surely, that is worth more than conceits?