This is a poem without rhyme,
	totally devoid of any attempt
to perpetrate the lyrical crime
	that so incites contemporary art's contempt.

Why waste all that precious time
	trudging through my dictionary
in search of words that rhyme
	to dress my message in finery?

Why waste time honing the skill
	of expressing feelings artfully
when such things only serve to kill
	the raw spirit of spontaneity?

Why dam up the stream of thought
	by building walls that only free
tiny trickles of verse that ought
	to burst forth into a formless sea?

Why, indeed?

Quickly, they contend, one loses sight
	of the message originally intended.
When rhyme determines what you may write,
	inevitably the meaning is amended.

Why, regular rhythms and rigid rhymes
	and strict syllabic structures
are the tools to commit linguistic crimes!
	They are no more than crutches.

Yet I still can't resist writing rhyming reams
	littered with alliterations.
I derive immense pleasure, it seems,
	in such linguistic elaborations.