Each poem aspires to become a meme,
Being unforgettable its fondest dream,
Grappling to some cranny of your brain,
Indelible as any inky stain
By virtue of its theme’s veracity
And rhyme and meter’s sheer tenacity—
Or so it was in palmier days than these.
Now poets are afflicted by disease,
Believing it is better to be freed
From antique strictures of an outworn creed,
Declaring that the death of prosody
Releases them from lockstep tyranny.
What they forget is how verse locks in minds
A resonance that only music binds.