On Being Fluent in Iambic Pentameter

To speak the tongue of sages comes in handy,
Addressing cars and couches full of kings,
It keeps one’s grave reproaches sounding dandy,
Makes one who’d scream seem more like those who sing.

But commoners ignore a merry measure,
Are quick to point their fingers at the poet,
Who’d exploit their many miseries for pleasure,
And be fool enough to think they wouldn’t know it.

A rhythmic poem’s a thing that’s rarely risky,
For flawless beats a meaning does disdain.
The beauty of the awful shock of whiskey,
Will override the beating of the rain.

Take wit to heart and meter to the head,
A poem is done that’s said what should be said.