I found a poem, tied down to a chair;
Its broken iambs lay dead on the ground
I went to pick them up and give them care
When at once there came a rapping
And I saw its trochees flapping
Hard against the cold, dank floor.
Then I could hear, from a cell, in the chamber,
Its dactyls there crying, and not just on paper.
Then the anapaests came out from under the book
And craned theirs heads at me and gave me a look:
“our friend theys have been butchered, and look what
The guard crouched in the poem’s centre
His teeth gnawing the tender filament.