Dear Patty,
I have never met a child or a poem
born to live a free verse life,
willingly submit to patrician
powdered **** cheek horror at
the unconformity of escapading,
river rafting verbal tumulting,
never awoken needy to be yoked
by syllabic laws of brutalists,
jailed by autocratic diktats of meter,
or the iron confines of lines formatted,
imprisoned, once set free, they then opine-id
prithee prithee, prithee please sir
on
my license plating,
can I whine,
write free or die
bind me not by the rigid sharpies
of executed orders, or count the numbered
breaths tween my freedom riders,
escaping with grinning faces
shouting seen-u-around, and
don't forget to say
bye bye
to the tortuous
pretense of them
haiku hi hi hooliganisms,
and the amoebic
pentameter of a
speare chuckere
who was foolishly glad to trade
the kingdom of freedom
for a besaddled horse
led around by
the reign of ruthless rules
is this crystal-a-line clear
my dear?
