This Poem Demands an Apology

You're skimming me,
eyeing the margins. Trying to read
between the lines,
no doubt.

You're enjoying me
ironically. Having your way
with my ambiguity.

Rewriting me so I rhyme,
inserting Shakespearean devices
here and there, anon.

Knocking my feet out from under me
so I skip with a singsong scansion,
saccharin-sweet.

Adding alliteration.

Changing the ending.

In poetry we have a poem for readers like you,
which starts: roses are red, violets are blue,
and ends where the sun doesn't shine

Prosaic are you
and so are thine eyes,
so tender it, reader,
and call off your spies