Why write in verse?

Why write in verse,
     when you can be simple instead?
Why go for a dinner date,
     when you can have breakfast in bed?
Why talk of politics and the world,
     when you can wallow in gossip?
Why have a cake and not eat it,
     when you have the old block and its chip?
Why ask a silly, confusing question,
     when you can have an intelligent answer?
Why wander in search of Anastasia,
     when you can be a Bolshoi dancer?
Why travel the globe,
     when you can surf the net?
Why go and shop for things,
     when you can bid for everything you get?
Why fall in love,
     when you can have sex?
Why read Harry Potter,
     when you can never cast a hex?
Why talk sweet and proper,
     when you can cuss at every word?
Why be honest at all,
     when you can run with the herd?
Why like any cubist art,
     when you are rounded all around?
Why search for a chalice of gold,
     when what is, cannot be found?
Why listen to a dulcet Kishore,
     when you can beat Britney at her game?
Why read a Parineeta,
     when Bridget will tell you all, just the same?
Why be a mere human,
     when you can be of divine birth?
Why spend a few gallons of oil,
     when you can spend the whole earth?
Why prove a theorem,
     when you know that it is true?
Why protect the Panthera tigris,
     when there are already so few?
Why be sensible,
     when you be of sarcastic wit?
Why work your way up,
     when you can be an instant hit?
Why talk to me again,
     when you can listen to your own voice?
Why choose to flirt with fire,
     when you can burn your own choice?
Why did you open a door,
     when you cannot guarantee a close?
Why am I writing poems again,
     when I can run amok in prose?