About

Ottava rima? Me? That can't be right!
Too frivolous? But tut, there's no such thing!
Let others ponder thoughts of wrong and right,
Or sit and think how much they love the spring;
I'd rather spend my time in gleeful spite,
Or maybe laugh, or maybe sit and sing.
Besides, it might be fun to be inspiring -
But surely it would get so very tiring.

If they told you I'm mad, then they lied.
I'm odd, but it isn't compulsive.
I'm the triolet, bursting with pride;
If they told you I'm mad, then they lied.
No, it isn't obsessive. Now hide
All the spoons or I might get convulsive.
If they told you I'm mad then they lied.
I'm odd, but it isn't compulsive.

I am free verse,
and know the rules,
and use them -
when they suit me,
which admittedly
tends not to be the case.
Authority,
tradition, laws;
very much not
my sort
of thing,
I fear.
Perhaps, on occasion,
I go too far in the opposite direction,
and shun the accepted merely because it's accepted,
accepting its opposite merely because it isn't;
but since it's clearly
better that than
being normal;
well,
why
not?