Petulant Poet

           



Petulant Poet





I detest writing blank verse

My writings I nurse, rehearse.                    

Perfection being my goal,

Gladly I'd barter my soul

In place of writing blank verse.





But even worse is free verse:

Discipline's dead, in a hearse.

Int'rest is wantonly killed

Anon attention is stilled

Whenever one reads free verse.





I'd sooner hear donkeys bray,

My wits would dissolve away.

List'ning  to  either type verse,

Goads  me in public to curse,

To hear good poesy betray.





This poet will shun such verse;

His rhyme, his meter rehearse,

Until that glorious day

When all writers see his way

And pen only polished verse. 





It's poetry at its worst

Whenever one writes such verse.

Despite Walt Whitman's success

The Muse does rarely one bless

For scribbling such mindless mess.





Most fellow members of the local writers' group forgave me this writing, realizing it was largely tongue in cheek.





George Collier King