In Chains and Shackles of the
Presumptions of Free Verse
The poets who disdain tradition’s forms,
Reject the sonnet and the villanelle,
Prefer arthritic shapes like tortured corms
Or stringy roots that grow from mocking hell
To desecrate pure pages with crabbed scrawl,
These scribblers do not seem to realize
That slavish duty to free verse’s sprawl
Is now the ironclad doctrine. They despise
Tradition and enthusiastically
Spill jots of treacle on the tablecloth
Of well-ironed linen for afternoon tea.
They’d equally enjoy spilling broth.
They scorn bone china and the silver spoons
And write out shrivelled verse like wrinkled prunes.