Free Verse

I now delight  

In spite  

Of the might  

And the right  

Of classic tradition,

In writing  

And reciting  

Straight ahead,  

Without let or omission,  

Just any little rhyme

In any little time  

That runs in my head;  

Because, I’ve said,  

My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed

Like Prussian soldiers on parade

That march,  

Stiff as starch,  

Foot to foot,  

Boot to boot,  

Blade to blade,

Button to button,  

Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.

No! No!  

My rhymes must go  

Turn ’ee, twist ’ee,

Twinkling, frosty,  

Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty;  

Rhymes I will make  

Like Keats and Blake  

And Christina Rossetti,

With run and ripple and shake.  

How pretty  

To take  

A merry little rhyme  

In a jolly little time

And poke it,  

And choke it,  

Change it, arrange it,  

Straight-lace it, deface it,  

Pleat it with pleats,

Sheet it with sheets  

Of empty conceits,  

And chop and chew,  

And hack and hew,  

And weld it into a uniform stanza,

And evolve a neat,  

Complacent, complete,  

Academic extravaganza!