The method is simple. With care and with pains,
Conceal, if you have them, all semblance of brains.
Exclude from the scope and wide range of your pen
Whatever is still of some moment to men,
And prance on the memory of aught that has long
Been supposed, by a doddering world, to be Song.
Let Metre eternally jump, jolt, and lurch:
For limitless crudeness make infinite search.
Tradition—Form—fiddlesticks! Play your own part,
Like nothing in Nature—and nothing in Art.
Remember, a spavinless Pegasus counts,
In the eyes of true moderns, as poorest of mounts,
And nought that your fathers so blindly enjoyed
Can be else than a blunder their sons must avoid;
So beware lest a line inadvertently scan,
And of course be as odd and as queer as you can.
At the slightest intrusion of Grace take alarm,
And nip in the bud the least menace of Charm.
Let Euphony rank as a cardinal sin;
Be careful that Comeliness does not creep in;
And write in a fashion that makes men of sense,
At the mere name of Poetry, haste to fly hence.
But lose not an hour , lest the floodtide be past,
And the market for twaddle be glutted at last.
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