A Sonnet came to ask, 'Why me?
Why do you stick to me so, when Villanelle
Or Rhyme Royal would do just as well
To show off poesie's armoury?
'And where, pray, the heroic Iambics
Which gave Shakespeare his tools?
They live and die where mere fools'
Componentry might fill the beaks
'Of poetasters everywhere. Elegiacs,
Spondaic tetrameters—poor things,
Forgotten now as you compose in sing-
Song cretinous Choriambocretics?'
I've come too late with too many lines to the volta. Sorry,
Dear Sonnet', I replied. 'But like an erstwhile love
You can never be entirely banished
From heart or head or indeed the glory
Of inspiration, whenceever its treasure-trove,
And must be penned down, before it's vanished.