Style

A poem by Rudyard Kipling might not go something like this:

Rowely, Rowely

Rudy is his name
Twerpdom his domain
And his kin flourish truly.
They run to his camp
Their eyes so damp,
They claw to capture his sight;
To see as he does -- unruly
That the stars of the night
Do millions number
Hanging in order and harmony
Rudy's lack of substance
and pseudo-rebellion
Could rip constellations asunder.
With no one stopping to ask: Why?
With not one person asking why.






Copyright © 2010-11 Patrick Darnell