Something wrong we think there is
with verse built out of rhyme;
it is not honest and not real
which does not fit our time.
The gods of style and of good taste
determine what is right,
and we are no more in control
and do not like on sight.
We have to study and make hard
all that is clear and plain,
we have to struggle and to strive
and go through tears and pain,
then after years of sacrifice,
in which we beat our breasts,
we can begin to "verbalize"
what was always in our chests.
And when we start to "verbalize",
our brain is old and damp,
our zeal and soul are petrified,
our spirit has a cramp.
The meager words that now can flow
from such a sorry sight
are sparse and frail and cold and sharp
and cannot give delight.
But gods of style and of good taste
thrive in these very ranks;
they think they speak for what is right,
they think they should get thanks.
Well let me tell you, little gods,
from one whose faith is small:
No god has walked on this fine earth
who hasn't had a fall.