While all around the poseurs raise a cheer
For innovation, in whatever guise,
(Provided that it shocks it wins the prize)
We of the sane majority will jeer
At random breaks and rhythms none can hear
Except perhaps the maker as he cries
In sordid gutter language that defies
Accepted syntax, lets no structure near.
His muse learns nothing from a former age
But bucks some unknown trend, and nothing's worse
Than self-exposure that's both dull and dense:
The lines meander, pointless, down the page,
Fill chapbooks no one reads, for his free verse
Is free from everything, including sense.