each stepping with a nifty sharp accent.
How can I make sure my poem’s not a centipede?
How can I make sure my poem’s not a centipede?
Well, each foot should have a certain beat
that makes it amenable to measurement.
I’m sitting here counting my poem’s feet.
that makes it amenable to measurement.
I’m sitting here counting my poem’s feet.
It’s kind of like when I listen to my heart—
I can hear plain signals, long or short of count,
but I don’t want it to spaz out like a centipede,
I can hear plain signals, long or short of count,
but I don’t want it to spaz out like a centipede,
some of whose clickety feet might clack quite sweet-
ly if I could slow them to the right wave length.
I’m sitting here particularizing my poem’s feet.
ly if I could slow them to the right wave length.
I’m sitting here particularizing my poem’s feet.
One thing my feet won’t beat is a retreat
when my heart goes off a-cantering to hounds
that’ll rip a poem up like a centipede!
when my heart goes off a-cantering to hounds
that’ll rip a poem up like a centipede!
I’ll be the last one standing beside Schrodinger’s cat
when God’s strange Word tears apart the mount-
ain tops. My poem’s counted feet
will run both ways, like a cloven centipede.
when God’s strange Word tears apart the mount-
ain tops. My poem’s counted feet
will run both ways, like a cloven centipede.
