To A Vers Librist

"Oh bard," I said, "your verse is free; The shackles that encumber me, The fetters that are my obsession, Are never gyves to your expression. "The fear of falsities in rhyme, In metre, quantity, or time, Is never yours; you sing along Your unpremeditated song." "Correct," the young vers librist said. "Whatever pops into my head I write, and have but one small fetter: I start each line with a capital letter. "But rhyme and metre--Ishkebibble!-- Are actually negligible. I go ahead, like all my school, Without a single silly rule." Of rhyme I am so reverential He made me feel quite inconsequential. I shed some strongly saline tears For bards I loved in younger years. "If Keats had fallen for your fluff," I said, "he might have done good stuff. If Burns had thrown his rhymes away, His songs might still be sung to-day." O bards of rhyme and metre free, My gratitude goes out to ye For all your deathless lines--ahem! Let's see, now . . . What is one of them?