A rhyme constructed sadly,
As filler for a page,
Bespeaks of work done badly
By one who's not a sage.

It lacks the metered fashion,
That vital sense of verse,
That haunted sense of passion
For love, or hate, or worse.

It leaves the reader lacking
For truth an ode should bring.
For doggerel is cackling,
while poetry should sing.

Like artificial pleasure,
Which promises delight,
Doggerel's a treasure
Which seeks us to benight.

But wastes our time with humming
When music's what we ought;
To seek those things becoming,
Not those devoid of thought.

(c) 1997

To email the author of this poem: