How do I make the most of words and lines?
That is the question I must ask of you.
Please help me with this noble quest of mine.
With all these words, I don’t know what to do.

A rhyme flies by and slips right through my tongue.
A metaphor takes form then disappears.
My mind can’t turn these words into a poem.
These rules, this craft is nothing but unclear.

Shakespeare and all his friends are mocking me.
They see the suffering through this terrible fate.
To mold just fourteen lines in quatrain three,
And little couplet—yeah, it’s you I hate.

Okay, I quit. It simply won’t all fit.
Oh, why can’t I just write a **** sonnet?