I now delight

In spite

Of the might

And the right

Of classic tradition,

In writing

And reciting

Straight ahead,

Without let or omission,

Just any little rhyme

In any little time

That runs in my head;

Because, I’ve said,

My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed

Like Prussian soldiers on parade

That march,

Stiff as starch,

Foot to foot,

Boot to boot,

Blade to blade,

Button to button,

Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.

No! No!

My rhymes must go

Turn ’ee, twist ’ee,

Twinkling, frosty,

Will-o’-the-wisp-like, misty;

your dictionary

By Robert Gravees