They like their poetry to rhyme,
Men old before we'd call them so,
They like a beat to it,
All Iamb and Trochee in regiment,
Like the National Service,
That passed them by,
They'll quote the dirge of "real poetry",
As if defined by statute,
Laid down in steel like ships,
To slip without wave or sound,
Into the grey and maudlin sea,
Asleep with the polydactyls,