It seems to me sometimes
That forcing verse to rhyme
   And cleaving to the beat
   Of strict iambic feet
Leads to surprising power,
To metaphors that flower
   In unexpected sprays
     Of light.

But when images wrestle for attention,
When fistfights break out that shatter the meter,
When at mile 23 my blisters have burst,
   calves cramped, thighs chafed raw,
   I've heaved up a lung, and the stench in the portajohn
     has seized the stanzas and won't let them go ---
That's when I throw down my pen and shout,
   "To hell with this sonnet! Muse, gimme a beer!"

TopicHumor - TopicPoetry - 2006-08-24

(correlates: SuckItUp, ParkwayDelay, CogDis, ...)