Free Verse

I now delight     In spite     Of the might     And the right     Of classic tradition,     In writing     And reciting     Straight ahead,     Without let or omission,     Just any little rhyme     In any little time     That runs in my head;     Because, I've said,     My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed     Like Prussian soldiers on parade     That march,     Stiff as starch,     Foot to foot,     Boot to boot,     Blade to blade,     Button to button     Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.     No! No!     My rhymes must go     Turn 'ee, twist 'ee,     Twinkling, frosty,     Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty;     Rhymes I will make     Like Keats and Blake     And Christina Rossetti,     With run and ripple and shake.     How pretty     To take     A merry little rhyme     In a jolly little time     And poke it,     And choke it,     Change it, arrange it,     Straight-lace it, deface it,     Pleat it with pleats,     Sheet it with sheets     Of empty conceits,     And chop and chew,     And hack and hew,     And weld it into a uniform stanza,     And evolve a neat,     Complacent, complete,     Academic extravaganza!