The Dilettante

To no one in particular,

but everyone out loud


What you portend as Poetry,

should never make you proud


The words are so revealing,

of what’s not inside your head


Your heart lies soundly sleeping,

there forever in your bed


The words you do disservice,

as the rhyme you then defame


The couplets maimed and slaughtered,

with free verse then just the same


With your voice not flat or tinny,

maybe you should try to sing


Because verse as you now write it

—is a bee that cannot sting


(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

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