Metrophobia

Once a week, from six till seven, Every Wednesday, in a room down town. I go to a meeting for big strong men, Wearing funny hats, big boots and a gown. We all sit in a circle and have our say, Sharing experiences throughout the week. Talking about the words we had to confront, About the poems we’ve had to critique. You see, this group is for men fearing the verse, Fear driving them to secretive tears. Hiding from the works of poets of the day, They’ve hidden from poems for years. The stanzas and rhymes, the casual lines, The acrostic and ballad and footle. They freak us all down to a blubbering mess, To us, poetry’s a rough, savage brutal.