He lives within parameters he’s set
Defining his peculiar comfort zone
And follows rituals he can’t forget,
Invariable routines he’s made his own.
The very thought of spontaneity
Sends anxious shudders up and down his spine;
The trait he elevates is constancy:
What others liberate, he would confine.
And thus it was when he would write a verse,
He chose the strictest pattern that he knew,
A kind that liberal poets thought a curse,
And its practitioners were fit though few.
The happy paradox he’d often see
Is how this strict confinement set him free.