So here write I on iambs pentametric
In sonnet form, Italian in style I’m told.
What once I loved has, I think, grown quite old.
It makes me ill most vi’lently electric.
While I now laud in falsehood this one metric
I find that I am really getting bold
As my blood for this type doth runneth cold
This sonnet hath gone over like a lead brick.
So I’m supposed to put a volta here
To break conceptu’lly from th’octet above
My tone must change to subdued in the mere
But I say that this meter I don’t love.
Now someone please go fetch me something clear
So that I may this sonnet make sense of.