On the fourth of July James set forth a decree:
No more iambs or spondees or pyrrhics for me.
Listen closely now, folks, as I rhapsodize plight:
We are losing our poetry – our God-given right!
Now the prose writers live in a poor state of rhyme,
and despite my intentions they’re all out of time.
Their archaic tradition makes poems sound old,
and they crumble and crack like some dinosaur bones,
for their verses are fossils – they’re pterodactyllic,
not to mention their imagery’s far from idyllic.
So now gather, all lyricists. Sound their defeat!
It is time that our country stood strong on its feet –
on its rhythms and patterns of metrical beat!
(Original poem written for a creative writing course at Penn State. January 2013.)
No more iambs or spondees or pyrrhics for me.
Listen closely now, folks, as I rhapsodize plight:
We are losing our poetry – our God-given right!
Now the prose writers live in a poor state of rhyme,
and despite my intentions they’re all out of time.
Their archaic tradition makes poems sound old,
and they crumble and crack like some dinosaur bones,
for their verses are fossils – they’re pterodactyllic,
not to mention their imagery’s far from idyllic.
So now gather, all lyricists. Sound their defeat!
It is time that our country stood strong on its feet –
on its rhythms and patterns of metrical beat!
(Original poem written for a creative writing course at Penn State. January 2013.)
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