To pen a sonnet: not for faint of heart!
That perfect phrase you love? It doesn’t fit.
To count to ten is not the hardest part –
Those tempting trochees are the toughest bit.
First weak, then strong, a meter dignified;
You’re confident your rhythm cannot fail.
A single strong-weak word you try to hide.
“I hate Bill S!” you soon begin to wail.
Delete those letters foul that don’t conform,
Erase the rhymes that take you from your task.
The syllables you type will soon transform,
But if they don’t, seek wisdom from your flask.
Just when you think the torture will not end,
Your wretched fourteenth line is thusly penned.
Dedicated to all the brave souls fighting iambic pentameter for the yeah write February poetry slam.
I must have struck a chord.