Lawrence Hall
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A Poetry Brawl Down at the Long Branch Saloon
I wrestled with a line of
blank verse until
It fell, all writhing on
the floor, and there
It gasped for breath and
glared at me with hate
Each syllable grating
against another
“You have a sorry accent,”
it snarled
“And when my rhythm rises
I will make you
A dactyl fallen or a
trochee tripped
With my booted and spurred
iambic feet!”
But we shook hands, and
let our quarrel cease
And so at Miss Kitty’s there
was
Syllabic accentuation at
peace
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