I Stink; Ergo Iamb

This next little ditty materialized at least ten years ago and since then hasn't seen the light of day. (For that, we can thank the God of our Choice.) Somehow it roused itself, headed over to the health spa, and with a 20% coupon off your first visit received a make-over. It claims as a role model Sonnet 130, but if that's true it's like comparing Oliver Wendell Holmes to Joe Pesci's character in My Cousin Vinny. Anyway, here it is:

I Stink, Ergo Iamb


The sonnet must be an elegant thing,
created when the poet follows rules.
It’s orchestrated by those born to sing
and seldom rises from the throats of fools.
The stress, for instance, found in fourteen lines
depends upon five iambs which ought to scan:
that rhythm’s how the sonnet so inclines.
I must confess that I don’t think I can
constrain my feet in graceful, ordered ways.
My rhymes are weak as walls in walk-up flats
where mice will shoo more swiftly than clichés,
infesting my mind’s attic as old bats.
Mere lice -- no bees -- may buzz my bonnet.
That’s why I’m nothing like a sonnet.



All Rights Reserved
by Aunt Shecky

Did you write this pome on your trusty 'puter, Pong iii? Or was writ by an unwashed authoress, as if at the supposed behest of Napleon? :devil:

Not exactly strictly to form, but then, the verse acknowledges its own erratisism by denying itself to be a sonnet. It is a sonnet, of course, but not a formal one. It is loose, though not louche. Perhaps a little high... Lol.

Live and be well. - H