So you think you can read.
Can you?
You’d not know a trochee even if it slapped you
Nor ever see a spondee in a long, slow, line.
An iamb lies before your eye unseen
And still to all of the pyrrhics in a line you remain
blind.
You think you know and, standing tall,
And simple,
On solid feet,
You mar a verse divine.
Nature’s bounty is before you
Tepid, amorphorous, insipid man
You hear a beat and pulse upon
Your breast and think it grand
To make a small and merry rhyme.
No need have you of practice
Of full poetic art,
All progress is within your grasp—
A short creative fart.
So carry on your way my friend
And live for all to see.
You may live a happy, calm, easy life;
I’d prefer not to.
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