The Poet's Farewell Address to His Tropes

This is a draft of the poem I didn't have time to write for my 181st entry.  I suspect it might be a bit too esoteric.  The title is an echo of "George Washington's Farewell to His Troops", except trope is a term that means any poetric technique.  I hope the other terms used in the poem become clear through context because that's the main point ot the poem; he uses the techniques as he bids them farewell.

P.S.  For some reason, this poem did not successfully posted yesterday (Monday).  Here it goes again. 

The Poet’s Farewell Address to His Tropes

     Today I must say good-bye
     To all who have served me so well.
     To you, Metaphor, who have been
     The rock, the foundation , the anchor
     The compass, the alchemy, the Muse
     And the mechanic behind all
     That I have done.
     And to you, too, Simile, who like
     A more modest younger brother
     Have ventured only similarities
     And not bold assertions
     As your more humble inheritance.
     And where would I be without
     Those closest of kin,
     Cosmopolitan Paradox
     And his country cousin,
     Oxymoron, whose amusing
     Duets produce such discordant
     Harmony?
    Then, of course, there is
    The maker of all patterns,
     Repetition,
    The maker of all patterns
    As Alliteration always attempts to attest.

    Then there are all those others
    Who are sometimes forgotten:
    There’s Synecdoche’s tongue
     And the pen of Metonymy-
     Or, forgive me, is it
     The other way around?
      Likewise, I must thank Hyperbole
      A million, million times
      For the billion, billion things
      he has done for me,
      And to diminutive Litotes
      Simply say, “Not bad.”
      But I go on too long and
      See Concision begin to frown,
      So I must finally thank
      My truest friend, Personification,
      For helping me with this address
      And beg forgiveness of Almighty Rhyme
      Whom I have neglected almost entirely this time.

      Thus end I with the poet’s ultimate inverted Irony:
      When he finally puts away all his tools
       So they are hidden well from view,
       It is he who disappears.