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
In any little time That runs in my head; Because,
I’ve said, My rhymes no longer shall stand
Like Prussian soldiers on
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
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!
