In this old world of literary tales
A lone defender cleans up all the verse.
For truly teenagers, females and males,
Than their knowledgeable elders are worse
In terms of writing poetry unscann'd
And other evil heretical works
That all the land of words would fain see bann'd
For truly such poor poetry quite irks
The sad inhabitants of poesy-land
Who live but solely on the fruitful words
Of humans, and who at the human hand
Do learn the limit that their country girds:
That is, the human's ingenuity
Which is the bound of lands of poetry.
This lone defender seeks to right the wrongs
Inflicted on this poetical land
By those who would afflict the human songs
And poems with emotions cold and cann'd.
This evil villain imitates the muse
And visits heads of teenagers all round
To instigate what else they would refuse:
The silliness of poetical sound
That lacks the scansion, lacks the running beat
Of truest poetry, of worthy art.
Instead this villain thinks that it is meet
That all the poets from scansion depart.
This Woman of Bad Scansion (that's the name
That Sonnet Man, our hero, gives to her)
Would play this great and terribly vile game
Against the poesy-world, which would prefer
That poetry be written with a beat
Consistent through the poem (in some form
Not necessary meter, nor no feet,
Just something to keep cold poem warm
By making it more sensible to them).
So, the fight between our Sonnet Man and she
Who would destroy the metrical poem
Is that to keep the poesy-country free
From angsty poetry that's overdone
And lacks the beat that keeps a poem quick.
He fights with aid of all in poesy-land
For they are made quite sullen and quite sick
As this pale poetry cannot sustain
Their lifeblood like the stuff they used to get
When ancients wrote their verses for their gain.
In league with Sonnet Man's another yet
His ally 'gainst the force of semiprose
Good Iamb Girl, the lady of the foot
The one whose aid is vital, heaven knows
To all that Sonnet Man has lately put
Into his books of deeds as keen success.
But know ye all, the foulest of things
Whose knowledge would for sure bring bitterness
Unto the heart of Sonnet Man. For Fortune brings
A sad, poor fact unto the watchful eye:
That Iamb Girl is prone to sickly fits
And in these fits is turn'd around, and aye,
She turns into the deepest of the pits
That e'er her soul has known, and then is she
The foul fiend we met before this time
The Woman of Bad Scansion, evilly
And fights the world of meter and of rhyme.
Now all of this is prologue, here comes act
Where all that's told here will soon be expos'd
And Sonnet Man will hear this loathsome fact
And what he will do then, but heaven knows.
So on, and on, and quickly start the scene
That all may pass and nothing be unseen.