twelveoone
ground zero
- Joined
- Mar 13, 2004
- Posts
- 5,882
a presentTo order ordered lists, revision rank,
Relink the ill-forged chain of Reasoned Art,
He came. Some called him Wit, some called him Crank,
To whit came the numbered heresiarch.
His bony scythe sliced all vainglorious
Poets thin, their weak-weft cuprous sones
Diced into mere poor, sob-storious
Strict metered verse that bled in wat'ry tones.
We miss our hierarchies! the Poets cried.
He laughed a cruel laugh, played some Zevon
(The bloody one where headless Roland died),
A madman across the water. Like Levon,
He proudly wore his war wound like a crown
And swore to flip all windmills upside down.
What hierarchies?
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=240208
you and friends want to count it off?

