Hieruit citeren we de volgende bijdrage, er gemakshalve van uitgaande dat onze Brexiterende buren dat prima vinden.
A Poet's Complaint
My verse, called formulaic, is iambic or trochaic, or dactylic, anapestic, or the like. In any line you might be seein' maybe spondee, maybe paean, as the rhythm jogs along or takes a hike.
But, alas, the pitter-patter of my homely metric matter is not the stuff that editors might choose. They want poems stark, intense, that goad the mind and not the sense for the most important Journals and Reviews.
I've sometimes ventured, I admit, to stir the kettle, just a bit, of the witch's brew of modern poetry, but with the best of all intentions such poetical inventions, are sadly, I have found, not made for me.
So if, by sticking to a pattern I'm a literary slattern, I'll plead guilty to the charge and serve my time, fill the lowest bardic station, and in lieu of publication just continue with my doggy style of rhyme.