Busted

Gentle as rain, the poetry police
Thundered at my mixed metaphor

Then accused me of, splitting, I think,
Infinitives with grammar poor

The hanging judge participle, thinking my words
Predicate syntactic crime

The jury, an actively passive bunch
Took little joy from my rhyme

The discourse was quick, I has no defense
But felt no need for penance

Foreshadowed is seemed, from the very first word
I was given a fragmented sentence

So here I sit, poetic license revoked
Condition of release now imposed

For the next thirty days, for my own good
I’m only allow to write prose