Scratch the pipes; cut to the
whiskey
Poesis,
poem of life
Poesis,
product of strife:
What
immortal hand or eye
Dare
frame thy meter, ink thy lies?
In
what cellars dank and dark
Burnt
the fire of thy art?
On
waxen wings dare he aspire?
Damn
the heat! Damn the fire!
And
what vision and what wit,
Could
twist the meaning of thy script?
And
then thy words began to beat:
Damn
the accent, damn the feet!
Damn
the meter, damn the rhyme,
In
what sonnet was thy time?
What
the ballad? What dead foot
Dare
its buried rhythm loot?
When
the bard threw down his lines
And
water’d English with his iambs,
Did
he smile his work to see?
Did
he who set the bar, believe?
Poesis,
poem of life
Poesis,
product of strife:
What
immortal hand or eye
Dare
frame thy meter, ink thy lies?
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