A poem is a meme for memory,
A virus built to live inside your brain:
The more cogent and virulent the strain,
The better will it reach posterity.
Thus rhyme and meter must be made to stick
And haunt the halls of echoing resonance,
For like an ancient clock whose tick-tock-tick
Reverberates throughout the house, the sense
And sound of verses should collaborate,
Appearing destined to collude by Fate.