Promote me a meter,

Start me a reason with no prose nor a verse.

Line by line I shall deliver.

All shall hail that iambic prison while that pentameter cue that haiku.

Then line by line i shall study,

with what ryhme it is not acquired nor giveth,

than logic is as the same as my emotional treason.

By what senses it had obeyed by these fingers typed,

only the body hyphen the smell of all is taken.

Words are tossed as that love of ryhmed reason that betrayed

an iambic quatrain deemed justified in the rules of an elizabethan stanza made in shame.