A fairly strict Iambic Pentameter with a mostly ABAB rhyme scheme. Fairly taut formality, in other words-- really doing anything else would have been distractingly ironic. It's not that I'm a meter nazi. In fact there're a couple real breakdowns in my meter here, extra points for spotting them.

I'm quite pleased with the steady but positive confrontation that comes out in this poem; that wasn't an accident and I didn't say anything I didn't mean. It will piss off 40% of people who claim to like or write poetry. Understand though that it's not just an argument, it's a plea, a battle-cry, a final call, because poetry is NOT just anything you want it to be, and aesthetics is NOT purely subjective, and knowing this MATTERS, at least for the sake of writing poetry.

I really have not decided entirely how to order stanzas 3 through 7-- they're certainly a coherent whole for me, but I'm not totally confident about they way they seem to jump around. I'm also wondering if I shouldn't take stanzas 6 and 7 out and make them a companion poem. Except they go to a point I really want to make here.