"Oh bard," I said, "your verse is free; <br />The shackles that encumber me, <br />The fetters that are my obsession, <br />Are never gyves to your expression. <br /> <br />"The fear of falsities in rhyme, <br />In metre, quantity, or time, <br />Is never yours; you sing along <br />Your unpremeditated song." <br /> <br />"Correct," the young vers librist said. <br />"Whatever pops into my head <br />I write, and have but one small fetter: <br />I start each line with a capital letter. <br /> <br />"But rhyme and metre--Ishkebibble!-- <br />Are actually negligible. <br />I go ahead, like all my school, <br />Without a single silly rule." <br /> <br />Of rhyme I am so reverential <br />He made me feel quite inconsequential. <br />I shed some strongly saline tears <br />For bards I loved in younger years. <br /> <br />"If Keats had fallen for your fluff," <br />I said, "he might have done good stuff. <br />If Burns had thrown his rhymes away, <br />His songs might still be sung to-day." <br /> <br />O bards of rhyme and metre free, <br />My gratitude goes out to ye <br />For all your deathless lines--ahem! <br />Let's see, now . . . What is one of them?<br /><br />Franklin P. Adams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-vers-librist/
