You are so wrong, so very very wrong,
To think that rhymes wreck the verse.
Sure, they get used where they don’t belong,
And when ill-used are a curse.
And yes, they take their time to mature
In the life of the poet’s pen –
They cannot be nervous, must always be sure,
And practiced agen and agen.
They write their verses blank and free,
And barely bait the hook;
But Keats and Frost and Tennyson
Can still be grasped by anyone.
They write their verses free and blank,
And barely sell a book;
While Blake and Burns and Betjamin
Can still sell-out and fetch ’em in.
I tell myself, its cos they rhyme –
They hate me that, they hate me that.
I know my verse is in its prime –
They must see that, they must see that.
But still they always get rejected,
While some prosy tripe’s selected.
Must be just how I suspected –
Must be that, it must be that.