If Bard I Be
The sonnet form's antique and mired in dust,
Why should I strive thus so to write one well?
If bard I be then learn new styles I must.
Will I achieve my goal, who can foretell?
So here I sit again with pen in hand,
Attempting some new quatrains that will rhyme,
Entreating Muse to guide my falt'ring wand.
The formula, so strict, takes lots of time,
But I'll persist 'til fourteen lines are writ,
One final couplet crowning three quatrains,
Persistence now completing this last bit.
There's something 'bout a sonnet tests my brain.
Yet I prevail, these fourteen lines once one,
The prize obtained, this poet's work is done.
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