Common and cheap as the nails in the planks,
Empty as frothiest blather of Fingal,
Pointless as ends of the cats of the Manx,
Still the mere fact that their lines are not “blanks”
Helps them the Mount of Parnassus to climb,
Strengthens their unwinged Pegase’s shanks:
This is the era of run-mad rhyme.
Who shall reign over us sole and single?
He who his rhyme-web’s intricate hanks
Wears like a collar of bells that tingle,