Homyrrh
02-20-2008, 12:20 PM
Upon another poem I glance;
‘Tis just a product of free will.
“I can write a poem!” they say.
Myself, I’d rather be killed.
Conform to convention I shan’t
I’m tired of free verse.
Please release me from my bonds,
And do the same with this curse.
God forbid a poet rhymes,
Lest he be machine.
“Damn the ordered poet!”
My art is cut and clean
What’s wrong with a stanza?
What’s the matter with a rhyme?
Why does no one else I see,
Have a perpetual four lines?
I’ll tell you now this poem is done;
You free to know I’m through.
For in this day of wasted lines,
Here’s something new to do.
‘Tis just a product of free will.
“I can write a poem!” they say.
Myself, I’d rather be killed.
Conform to convention I shan’t
I’m tired of free verse.
Please release me from my bonds,
And do the same with this curse.
God forbid a poet rhymes,
Lest he be machine.
“Damn the ordered poet!”
My art is cut and clean
What’s wrong with a stanza?
What’s the matter with a rhyme?
Why does no one else I see,
Have a perpetual four lines?
I’ll tell you now this poem is done;
You free to know I’m through.
For in this day of wasted lines,
Here’s something new to do.