My sonnet’s not a pretty thing
Its rhymes are gauche and foul
Upon the ears it’s apt to ring
Like a dying screech owl.
I cannot rhyme, that is the truth
(and as you know, I never lie)
But since I have to, then, forsooth
I’m wont to ask you, why?
Why must I sonnet for you, if
The only thing I’ll cause is pain
The rules of rhyme are far too stiff
These lines are ugly stains.
And now to joy my voice I’ll lend
The sonnet’s finally reached its end!