The poem's the thing...

A little set up. This poem was originally posted to a message board
subfolder entitled, "Some humble attempts at rhyme and meter," in which
readers have been subjected to all kinds of insipid poetry, mostly from
one member. Some of it does occasionally rise to the level of
passable. A message board member recently posted Frost's "October" with
this introduction: "/A timely rhyme, from an Eastern writer of reason,
and so sublime for our Season!"

/I couldn't stand it anymore, so responded with this --

*A Frosty Response*

The poetry of Frost I shall accost
For I've had my fill of his dull quill,
No rhymes nor lines on me are lost,
But I'll brook no look at linguistic swill.
I shan't not vent my idle cant,
I can't unspent leave my little rant,
For what it's worth -- do read my mirth
(extending the girth of this dull earth) --
Frost's a prick with one sick wit.

Did I keep my rhyme in time?
Aren't my feet most meetly sweet?
Or are my words not worth the birds,
My meaning blurred, my song interred?

Jim Rovira

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Received on Thu Oct 9 13:35:35 2003