Raise a dog-sled team. Die in a cave. Talk to god. Cowards. It's poetry for fucks sake.

I cannot count the times that I,
Beneath nose upward turned,
Was scolded toward a rule-set
Each living thing has learned.

"Poetry doesn't have to rhyme."
Oh really? You don't say?!
"Sounds old and antiquated;
Just not the proper way."

Which is it then, you endless bore?
Is there option at all?
"Only a true maste-"
Just - grow some fucking balls.

Ever heard of William Blake? 
Of Dickinson or Poe?
Your slice of life is godless,
More music in my toe. 

The sanctified antiquated?
I'd good-god-damn hope so.
Divinity wrestled from the fog's
The one and only show.