“The fear of falsities in rhyme,
In metre, quantity, or time,
Is never yours; you sing along
Your unpremeditated song.”
“Correct,” the young vers librist said.
“Whatever pops into my head
I write, and have but one small fetter:
I start each line with a capital letter.
“But rhyme and metre — Ishkebibble! —
Are actually negligible.
I go ahead, like all my school,
Without a single silly rule.”
Of rhyme I am so reverential
He made me feel quite inconsequential.
I shed some strongly saline tears
For bards I loved in younger years.
“If Keats had fallen for your fluff,”
I said, “he might have done good stuff.
If Burns had thrown his rhymes away,
His songs might still be sung to-day.”
O bards of rhyme and metre free,
My gratitude goes out to ye
For all your deathless lines — ahem!
Letís see, now . . . What is one of them?