One afternoon, as summer, lurching, punched
his verdant deck chair, staggered to the rail
and vomited the autumn's spectral lunch,
Trochee squeaked once, then vanished with a wail,
and fifty loud iambic footsteps hailed
a Dizain's stately march onto the ship.
A sauerkraut rain of drool dripped from his lip;
his quatrains mingled in a metric stew.
He cleared his throat, then calmly quoth this quip:
"Iamb what iamb, now how about you?"