The hero’s a “poet of law.”
A “poet of anarchy” meets him
And finds his wit quick on the draw.
The two of them publicly argue
On which kind is better to be.
“Is beauty in order or chaos?”
Alas, what they both fail to see
Is that neither is wholly sufficient:
A world of pure law would be dull,
While a world that was fully anarchic
Would drive you right out of your skull.
The story goes on to be silly—
A Nightmare, the subtitle’s said.
For a Chesterton work, it’s not lousy,
But it isn’t the smartest I’ve read.