There is a law in our land
Which says that everyone,
Of fitting age and fitting strength,
Must bear a soldier’s gun.
For all must march and all must fight
To keep our country free;
And all must learn a common art;
The art of soldiery.
Another law which all must heed
Says taxes must be paid.
For taxes are our member dues
In the club we can’t evade.
But no law yet has ever been passed
In these or ancient times,
Which says that we must speak in rhythm
And always end with rhymes.
And so despite our failing ranks,
We still are perfectly free,
As far as poets are concerned,
To be or not to be.
But if you choose to spit at rhythm,
At rhyme to thumb your nose,
Go on and do it as you please,
But be sure to call it prose.
From Divine Alchemy
