A Tetrameter Too Many

A crutch! A crutch it has become.
A crutch I must discard at once.
A crutch that holds my words upright,
Though none of them are fit to stand
Upon their own iambic feet.

A factory site it has become:
Assembly line of poetry,
Producing lines of poetry
In cycle time of seconds few
At cheapest cost and quality.

At once, at once, arrest this flow.
This flow will make me write a lot.
A lot of shallow nothingness
In garb of musicality,
Eroding all the work so far,
The work in which I struggled much.
My masochistic vanity
I must protect. At once! At once!

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