The Emperor Poem Poem by Dennis Lange

The emperor rides streets without his clothes.
Though bard and critic value vapid verse,
He, modern poem, is naught but naked prose.

Contempt for poems reveals the public knows;
Like Scotsmen, they cling tightly to the purse.
The emperor rides streets without his clothes.

It's only paragraphs put into rows,
As though a patient, lined, becomes a nurse.
He, modern poem, is naught but naked prose.

Blank verse leaves readers blank, dulled, in a doze;
Or worse, in deep disgust to mutter, curse.
The emperor rides streets without his clothes.

Perhaps it is the snob with upturned nose
Who blindly drives the barren poet hearse.
He, modern poem, is naught but naked prose.

The tiny poet crowd has inbred woes.
I, little child, will cry and tell it terse:
The emperor rides streets without his clothes.
He, modern poem, is naught but naked prose.