Prissy Petulant Poet Poem by George King

I detest reading blank verse
My writings I nurse, rehearse.
Perfection being my goal,
Gladly I’d barter my soul
In place of writing blank verse.

But even worse is free verse:
Discipline's dead, in a hearse.
Anon attention is stilled
Int’rest is wantonly killed
Whenever one reads free verse.

I’d sooner hear donkeys bray,
My wits would dissolve away.
List’ning to either type verse,
Goads me in public to curse,
To hear good poesy betray.

This poet will shun such verse
His rhyme, his meter rehearse,
Until that glorious day
When all writers see his way
And pen only polished verse

It’s poetry at its worst
Whenever one writes blank verse.
Despite Walt Whitman's success
The Muse can’t ever one bless
For scribbling such mindless mess.