I know I should not, yet I do
Straightjacket words, frog march them, too,
In metered verse, in rhyming pairs,
Slotted in place like crossword squares.
I’m sure this particular mental quirk
Comes from atavistic genes that lurk
Like refugees from a distant time:
When the glory of language was music and rhyme.
Now, if I can break the grip of this habit on me,
I can let my words gambol go free!
And all the beauty of abstract art-
And powerful prose shall fill my work!