One does not simply write little sonnets
Like my English teacher wants me to do.
My mind wanders to tales of hobbits
And wish I were writing simple Haikus.
Old men, so bored, had to make this stuff up.
Iambs, pentameter, all lost on me.
And some rhyming pattern I’m forcing: sup?
Simply stated, it is not how I think.
Trying to be clever while writing this,
With some deeper meaning that is unknown,
Though—tortured soul I am missing and wish
That that Shakespeare would have left it alone.
But I suppose that’s why he’s important
And all my poems come off as abhorrent.