The Queen's English Society Makes Enemies of Poets

Over the weekend Southern Cal had sun,
But it was really quite dark over one,
The Queen's English Society in Britain
Was busy establishing poetic corruption.

For poetry to be poetry, they declared,
It must be how we like it prepared,
With meter and rhyme (and the English behind)
Like Shakespeare, John Donne, or Chaucer.

Without the free verse of the times,
And with only their orderly rhymes,
They can call to esteem the ones that they deem
So old English poets might reign supreme.

So much for the creative blood flow
That plants seeds of novelty to grow
Over the rigidity of words that plateaued
Hundreds of years ago.

Such originality must be quenched
For, they dare say, it does leave a stench
Not pleasing to their noses, although one supposes
They smell their own rotten trench.

Bury the nay-sayers, they proclaim,
And carry them away in their shame.
We'll say it's their fault, they provoked the assault
For not all becoming the same.