My verse is free when it’s constrained.
It must be disciplined and trained
To ramble with abandoned glee:
    So true it is that freedom isn’t free.

That thought should take its wings from form
Is no exception, but the norm.
I cannot run without my feet
    (Which is a pun that’s really rather neat).

Through scribbling poems at last I’ve found
That freedom’s freest when it’s bound;
And what is true in poems is true
    Superlatively when I’m bound to you.

I’m only free to be the me
I think I really ought to be
If I am yours and you are mine.
    So—hem—well—will you be my valentine?