Sixteen lines of mediocre prose,
arranged neatly, into four stanzas,
simply because that is the way they are,
not for any purpose.
But here, see how he struggles!
To fit these messages, semi-coherent,
into his own restricting rhythm,
the format of the green-horned fool.
But, once again, he mimics himself;
on purpose, he thinks, to be clever,
but nothing positive is written.
Perhaps I'm just a hypocrite.