Classic Poem

Oh bard, " I said, " your verse is free;
The shackles that encumber me,
The fetters that are my obsession,
Are never gyves to your expression.

" The fear of falsities in rhyme,
In metre, quantity, or time,
Is never yours; you sing along
Your unpremeditated song. "

" Correct, " the young vers librist said.
" Whatever pops into my head
I write, and have but one small fetter:
I start each line with a capital letter.

" But rhyme and metre — Ishkebibble! —
Are actually negli gib le.
I go ahead, like all my school,
Without a single silly rule. "

Of rhyme I am so reverential
He made me feel inconsequential.
I shed some strongly saline tears
For bards I loved in younger years.

" If Keats had fallen for your fluff, "
I said, " he might have done good stuff.
If Burns had thrown his rhymes away,
His songs might still be sung to-day. "

O bards of rhyme and metre free,
My gratitude goes out to ye
For all your deathless lines — ahem!
Let's see, now. . . . What is one of them?