Your stilted free verse tribulations

have never had the legs to explain

all the tactile, tender titillations

in the eight-step pizzicato quatrain

that shivers down your spine. Tear

out the pages trying to fit it all in time,

but I’ve watched their legs echo near

and far, and somehow spiders rhyme

no matter what poet tries to watch

their motion. A consensus is achieved

no matter how you must abuse and add syllables to your line to vaguely match

this desire of those few who still believe

that words so consciously arranged,

oh so coyly planned with preternatural pep,

might dance a darkly sensual, deranged

step step step step step step step step

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