T'was I "Thomas the poet", forsooks in deed I would
Fathom whats below it, there, the shelf where knick knacks stood
For in those books of metered rhyme, are many forms and 'ameters
And when I'm done with pickled time, I choose my own perameters

But this is my organic toast to open and invention
For twisted is the braggarts boast, exclusive intervention
If you are so offended by a certain form or meter
Your thoughts are not desended from beyond the gates of Peter

A rhyme can be a rhythm's crown, though you'd distain to know it
But cynics dominate the town, and aren't afraid to show it
Nibble a carrot with a frown, illusions did not grow it
Process does not know reknown, critique can't make a poet