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

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!