New Tricks

 

God love a pretentious poet,

Who’s a stickler for written rules.

He will, no doubt, deny it,

But he takes us all for fools.

Sat within his ivory tower,

He gloats at his creations,

And will spend hour upon hour,

Bemoaning our aberrations.

 

He’ll inform us of which convention

We’ve clearly laid to waste.

No free-form prose escapes attention,

As modern styles befoul his taste.

Epics, odes or elegies,

More befitting to this laureate.

Worry not, put minds at ease,

This pedant is an idiot.