What is a metre? Whereof do we speak?
Well, metre comes from France’s revolution
to make all poems rational and neat.
Any vers libre led to execution.
An army marches on iambic feet,
at least according to Napoleon,
and sprightly rhymes revive like bread and meat.
Rebels downed their pints at The Holy Inn.
But, liberally, this form allows dissent
and though the army marches on and on
there is a place here for my discontent
before the closure of the denouement
when a trim couplet makes my thought complete:
like mice on picket lines I have a squeak.