"Rhythm," Mrs. Woolf whispered. "Poetry is not just words. It is a heartbeat. Iambic pentameter. Da-DUM. Da-DUM. Da-DUM."
She tapped her ruler on the desk to the beat.
"If you break the rhythm," she said dramatically. "You break the spell. The poem dies. The reader loses interest."
Alex sat at his desk. He tapped his finger on his notebook.
Da-DUM. Da-DUM.
Football was rhythm too. The sound of the ball being kicked. The sound of feet on the grass. The roar of the crowd.
"Mr. Finch," Mrs. Woolf asked. "Can you complete this rhyming couplet? The ball flew high into the sky..."
Alex looked up.
"And landed where the seagull fly," Alex suggested.
"Grammatically questionable," Mrs. Woolf sighed. "But poetic enough."
Mark sat next to Alex. Mark was wearing a beret and a fake mustache (again). He was writing furiously with a feather quill.
"I AM A BARD!" Mark whispered loudly. "I AM WILLIAM SHAKES-SPEED!"
"Mark," Alex whispered. "That is not a real name."
