If you think of a number ‘tween ten and eleven, I’ll write you a verse and it won’t rhyme with ‘heaven’. For seven and eleven are fed up with this shit, where maybe rhymes with baby and where poetry’s no fit. Unimaginative cacophony flows from writers with no rhythm, and as the frogs of Aristophanes croak, good rhymes are croakin’ with ’em. There’s no thought for meter or beats now and never a pause for gorgeous rhymed thoughts coz somehow the elite don’t want their feet wet; for the fools daren’t step in the pool yet – the lake of new syntax where with order you fuck, to make the logical abstract in paint or in book. Don’t give free verse a worse time than you’d give to a song, listen up, say it loud, hum the tune, make up slang.
And the answers are there in your mind’s own thesaurus, for your own collection’s full of the sublime and fucking awesome. If you access your own mind, sit and question the hive, you might even find the word you need to rhyme with ten point five.
Just stop fucking with poetry by taking your prose and making it suck with versed formats coz believe me, that blows.

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