narrative conflict

i was struggling with a
verse the other day and i
just thought oh
sod it i don’t need this
hassle
trying to find a
rhyme for
orange
i mean what’s

the point and by the
way it’s door hinge
so i just
screwed up my
paper and started afresh without any of these
petty
bourgeois
rules
like punctuation
and capital letters

And then I just thought
“You know what – sod it again !”
Cos this just ain’t my way of kicking the ball.
I’ve got myself caught
In an indolent vein
That hurriedly dashes its prosy and unrhyming scrawl.
But no.  Don’t resort
To compare ev’ry strain –
They’ve theirs, and I’ve mine, and that’s all.

But mine is the old way
The bold way, the gold way,
The staying-up-late so the rhymes-can-unfold-way.
This self-yoked endeavour that’s so damn important,
And takes for just ever (though feels like it oughtn’t.)

And three hours later, those bourgeois old rules
Have finally rendered their delicate patter.
The verse is the greater for working with tools
Where even the commas and capitals matter.

But, for the lexicographic’ly curious
Rhymings can always be found to lurk –
There’s always a door hinge for seekers laborious –
Some meritorious, others a perk.
There’s only two rules that matter unspurious,
Two rules to punish the poets who shirk,
Two rules to render all verses victorious –
– Make them all glorious.
– Make them all work.