The Nature of Poetry

The creature called Poetry's

an unbridled thing;

It can glow, it can glide,

it can dance, it can sing;

It might mosey along,

calm and sedate,

Or rampage and snarl,

like a monster irate;

Its purpose might be

to romance or to woo

Or to rage and to rant,

and to bubble and spew;

It can build one up

to heights of new joy

Or rip one down

to maim and destroy;

So beware of its lures

and its purrs and its sting,

For the creature called poetry's

an unbridled thing.