That Sonnet - Remember?

That sodding sonnet has obsessed me now

For nigh on ninety days - maybe it's more.

I still can't get it finished, don't know how.

My fingers, not to mention brains, are sore.

I struggle with each rhyme, each assonance,

And try to fit each iamb into the verse;

I strive with mangled metre's consonants

And end up with a mess. Then sit and curse.

I don't know why I started all this crap,.

Or arrogantly tried to ape the Bard;

Or why I threw myself into this trap.

Oh, give up, man, it's just too bloody hard.

So, budding poets, leave Will on the shelf.

Forget him, guys, write prose and please yourself.