And nothing normal can describe it . . .
It was beyond rhyme, reason, rum, rhubarb or rhythm . . .
Therefore, Vers Libre Muse, help me!
Imagist outcast with the bleary eyes,
My psychic Pup, my polyrhythmic hound, lift up
Your voice and help me howl!
Tenth Muse, doggerel muse, slink hither, brute,
And lick your master's hand . . . I've need of
Thee . . .
Come catercornered on three legs with doubtful tail
And eager eyes . . .