I am Bic Pentameter
Bic Pentameter is my name
Rhythm is my business
Time management is my game

Short, Long & Sons employ me
To tidy up their verse
The satirists are not too bad
But Catullus is a curse

I have danced with Sappho
Brought Shakespeare home for tea
Swapped pretty tales with Byron
Bounced da Padova on my knee

Marlowe picked a fight for nought
Auden spiked my drink
Wordsworth was insomnolent
He never slept a wink

Yeats, now there's an anecdote
Worthy of the press
The critic's choice by all accounts
The brightest and the best

But listen to me prattling on
To my work I must attend
Performance, prosody, poesy
The rules of scansion do not bend

For metre is all important
When reciting off by heart
The classic works of yesteryear
And I shall play my part

Whisper into my ear all the words you wish to say.
Whisper into my ear all the secrets that you hold.
If you are too scared to speak the truth, write me a poem.
Hide your feelings in metaphors, write your heart's desires into illusions.
Tell me how your heart beats in metre, so late at night, when the night is still-
when there is nothing to hear, but a faint heartbeat,
I know it's yours, yearning for me.

Exits the friendly
From sun circled centre
Where no wispy 'membrance,
though 'tis what we're made of,
dost tangle in beaches or camp grounds.

Forgetting is lonely
in mustard seed corners
though lonely has purpose,
if purpose is stardom,
when taken in two over doses.

Chopping aortas
from hair raisèd partners
and sewing mine own onto
maddery night times
where blood is awaited and tha-thumping rythms exchange their romances thu-thampingly.

Grasping at cries,
and at nights overlapping.