10-10-2021, 06:12 PM
I was expecting end rhymes, with the short, 8-11 syllable lines in the beginning
Without rhymes, I think it works better if the lines are less regular.
If the author doesn't mind, the below is closer to what I was expecting — a humorous piece to go with the sing song meter. Now the original poem is not humorous, ergo the meter needs to change
Watching inebriate Charlie
pursued inside a revolving glass door
or as a lone prospector ambling precariously
along a precipitous Yukon floor
I can’t help but see that other gimp
with his gas mask mustache.
Where Charlie was loose limbed
with the peripatetic tramp's panache
Herr Hitler grew progressively stiff
dedicated to destruction,
yet God found an answer in Charlie's 24 fps clip,
and I dreamed that Hitler's eternal induction
in Hell would be to follow forever in Chaplin’s footsteps,
literally, stumbling through every gag
his brown uniform shabby and ill-fitting (whilst Krebs
follows behind with his colostomy bag
and a slim flexible cane), no Sieg Heils
left, only the laughter of his victims,
the Franks and Lipmans, Karlovskies and Miguels,
while from the shadows, one of them kicks him,
dictating nothing but the absurd,
and for dinner, turds.
Without rhymes, I think it works better if the lines are less regular.
If the author doesn't mind, the below is closer to what I was expecting — a humorous piece to go with the sing song meter. Now the original poem is not humorous, ergo the meter needs to change
Watching inebriate Charlie
pursued inside a revolving glass door
or as a lone prospector ambling precariously
along a precipitous Yukon floor
I can’t help but see that other gimp
with his gas mask mustache.
Where Charlie was loose limbed
with the peripatetic tramp's panache
Herr Hitler grew progressively stiff
dedicated to destruction,
yet God found an answer in Charlie's 24 fps clip,
and I dreamed that Hitler's eternal induction
in Hell would be to follow forever in Chaplin’s footsteps,
literally, stumbling through every gag
his brown uniform shabby and ill-fitting (whilst Krebs
follows behind with his colostomy bag
and a slim flexible cane), no Sieg Heils
left, only the laughter of his victims,
the Franks and Lipmans, Karlovskies and Miguels,
while from the shadows, one of them kicks him,
dictating nothing but the absurd,
and for dinner, turds.