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

  they stole”

  The guard crouched in the poem’s centre

  His teeth gnawing the tender filament.

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