Poetry, rejoice: you have nothing to lose but your form, your measures, your literary heritage, and the grandeur of your precedents. You will be removed, for your own good, from the ivory tower of the snobbery imposed upon you, and cast down to the dusty, barbed-wired, starless plain inhabited by the good ol' clodhoppers who have joined together in the fraternity of mediocrity, which may be called FreeMoronary, for the promotion and promulgation of Unrefinery.
Liberated from the burdens of literate skill, functional volcabulary, and any sense of obligation to canon, the aspirants are progressivle bereft of credibility as their hearts' sloppy exudations---and only those---slog through the sluices of their inabilities in the circular pursuit of verisimilitude which their innate lack of skill would not, otherwise, achieve.
The three Despotic Decrees of FreeMoronary are:
Ennervated Aspirant;
Feller of the Craft;
Master (Hook) Baiter.
The Master (Hook) Baiters are also Keepers, from themselves, of the arcane and ancient Moronic Secret---that their efforts are not any f***k**g good, even acceptable, and that clodhoppers easily transition into sh*tkickers as they proceed through the appendant decrees of the antiquated and exceptionally Stupid Scurrilous Rights---after the completion of which they have the privilege of calling themselves Rightsers.