As I studied weak and weary,
Till my eyes were red and bleary,
In the Real Dead Sea Bookstore.
By reason I would sleep and snore,
Metering this rhyme was dreary;
The study of Poe's lost Lenore.

When all at once I felt a quake,
Which made the sign above me shake.
It read:
“I amb the great pentameter
Accepted works to me defer
Verses that matter meter right
All else I scorn, deride and blight!"

Then fell the sign above the door.
It clattered as it hit the floor,
The store at once began to creak;
Fifty leagues beneath the shore.
Palpitations made my knees weak,
At the Real Dead Sea Bookstore.

I say, this mighty quake at sea,
Destroyed my desk and battered me.
A dreadful sight before me rose.
Twas as a dream I first supposed,
Till the specter beckoned me.
The master meterer deposed:

“I amb the great pentameter
Accepted works to me defer
Verses that matter meter right
All else I scorn, deride and blight!

Though they be bitter to the end
And their unworthy works defend
My minions thus informed eschew
Their works are seen as mere doo doo

Those trusted keepers of my law
With hearty laughter and guffaw
Will thus dismiss this lawless breed
All who break my iron decree”

Alas, shall we all be undone,
By the meter of the mastered one?
To whom all poets owe allegiance;
Though our works are oft egregious.
Whose sycophants, the hum and drum,
Make meter ever tedious.

Must all who pick up pen to rhyme,
Obey and keep this perfect time?
Would all creation cease to spin?
And rhymal rigidly defend?
To free up meter is no crime,
Or tyranny will have no end.

"Nay", said I amb, you are untaught.
Could no more fitting end be wrought,
To prove your writings are insane?
Than thrust your pen into your brain;
Refraining all who hold such thought,
Would prove that they were quite inane!

The tenor of this edict spoke,
Shook me to the core, I now awoke.
Fell from my chair, thus awakened,
My beliefs have all been shaken.
The great I amb was just a joke,
To all who in its grasp are taken.