There used to be a lot of them about,
But luckily they nearly all died out.
‘Twas in the “Poetry Wars of Attrition”
(When most of them expired from malnutrition.)
So he is quite a curiosity,
(Some even say he’s a monstrosity)
He almost every day commits a crime,
With metered verse and dare I say it – rhyme.
These vices were all banned some years ago,
Apparently no one has told him so.
This heretic is even known to curse
Our sacred cult of prose we call free verse.
For all of this he’s constantly berated,
Some even say that he should be castrated,
For if he meets a female formal poet,
There may be more of them before we know it.
Why do they with their formless prose persist,
Our efforts to enlighten them resist.
We’ve tried to teach these reprobates to rhyme,
But they keep writing twaddle out of time.
Their convoluted writing we find sick,
But their retort is simply that we’re thick.
Of what they write we can’t make head nor tail.
They sneer at us – award us “F” for Fail,
They sing songs out of time and in strange keys,
And publishers are deaf to all their pleas.
Starvation consequently is the norm,
Which serves them right for total lack of form.
We persecute them throughout all the lands,
Where they are found in small informal bands.
Let’s hope that all these free verse bards die out,
For they had once, (it’s rumoured), all the clout.
Copyright © Dennis N. O’Brien, 2011