EPTThe gravitas of greats is often leased
Like beer, in portions bottled by the meter
Or canned in rime, whichever one prefers.
What do we gain by adhering to form?
Is it an intimate, militant bugle
Stirring a longing for glories long gone?
Or is it nothing but a flimsy screen,
HFCS dissolved in Ganges water
To hide bilharzia and acrid ash?
No certain rule is etched in prose
Regarding this most weighty matter,
But for the moment, I suppose
It's almost certainly the latter.
I know too well: a man is prone
To seek the known, the comfort zone.
