This Rhymeless Nation

This rhymeless nation
Seeks foundation
For edification;
Such rhymes it knows
Are basically those
That streets compose
To fill their nose;
Not the great tradition
Of rhythmic diction
Whose moral force
Can kill a horse
Unless it canters
On Greenwich acres.
And so we praise
Ourselves, who raise
Poetry’s name, and lift
Equity’s gift,
No longer bereft,
But flush with validation
From timely donation.
Let us build us a castle,
The funding’s no hassle;
We’ll sing there for you
And your money too;
Though you lack a soul
We’ll supply it whole,
Two-hundred million times
In two-hundred million rhymes.
Our monthly, old and cranky,
Once doubled as a hanky,
Yet with newer, bolder purpose
We’ll haul it to the surface,
Mandating such use
As abjures the abstruse,
And feeds from living
Not workshop whining.
We’ll cash all checks
From you hapless hacks,
Then hire counsel
To refill our mainsail;
So belly up to the bar
And reach for the jar
Of endless bounty
(Not the one in Tennessee
That shapes what we see);
Nor does greed or ingratitude
Capture our attitude,
But our fiduciary duty
to multiply our booty.
We scream diversify
All but poetry!

Our lily, gifted by thirds,
Has resolved into turds,
Albeit plenty of them.
Bake ’em in the oven
Then look again:
They’ve all turned green.
For in taking discovery
To fish for recovery
We expensively see
How much richer we’ll be —
Reconstituted cash
Shall overflow our stash.
Hedge funds and courts
Real estate and torts
That’s playing the game
In the moral muse’s name.
Meanwhile, you benighted masses
(To us the same old asses),
Seen through our glasses
Your brains are molasses;
So we’ll write plain, and we’ll write clear
To bounce this off your ear:
All poems shall make sense
Compounding years hence
Despite negligence.

And you slugs in the gallery
Drawing bank salary,
Attend to these notions
As pertinent cautions:
No prudent investing
Without second-guessing
No facts but in hindsight
This is your insight:
Think ‘concentration’
For your meditation;
Consider what risks you take
For poesy’s sake;
Avoid us career-destroyers
With our silken lawyers,
And your own frightened bosses
Amid wreckage of losses
If only on paper,
Not in rhyme or in meter.


Our appeal was taken
But our cause is forsaken;
Contentions unravel
Under pressure of gavel.
That our counsel can’t read
Gave rise to our greed;
In a corner they backed us,
Also known as Malpractice.
Still our gift horse canters
On Greenwich acres.