Twas a happy day when to the printer went,
His book of verse, in time for Advent.
Relieved as he was, he could not relent,
Fearing the loss of time, through time poorly spent.
He was tired of rhyming couplets,
He simultaneously found them comforting.
In rhyming verse poetry emerged in droplets,
Yet archaic discipline was strangely enabling.
Why? Why should ending sentence,
With a rhyming suffix, produce better poetry?
What was the point of rhyming pretense?
Was it not mere sophistry?
Rhyming required constructing whole sentences,
Allowing less scope for vacuity
Rhyming required composition to make sense,
Allowing scope for clarity.
Cone Man was bound by this discipline,
Frequently forced to re-write sentences.
Cone Man was empowered by this discipline,
Frequently forced to
write better sentences
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