I am your President Oet,
and now is the time
for an Oet’s rhyme.
Indoors, where I preside
is my hat—
or something like that;
obeying laws
(like the Law of Gravity,
and Cole’s Law)
I am sure
enough
that I am following
in the footsteps of people with metrical feet,
and Symmetrical Street
is where I live
(at number forty-two)
in my humble-down abode
writing like a daemon
carrying his heavy overload;
making little cents
for tiny American people
and wallowing in the mud
of a poem writ in blood.
