Against Free Verse

Fie upon this free verse
What little value it holds.
No skill is here in it’s making
Vomited verse spewed cold

There is no refinement
That comes with fitting to form
Only slightly better than random
The bleat of a motorcar horn

No sweet symphony to sing
Of valor, love lost and regained
The boundaries make the thing
And polish the perfect refrain

No rhyme no rhythm, broken meter
Free verse might move the mind
At best, it can not sway the heart
Of emotion, naught left but rind

On and on the words they come
Pouring out with no thrift
Most trivial selfish whinings
So few are rare gifts
And still I write on


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