Some have argued that no one writes a sonnet
perfect in metrics, rhythm and in rhyme,
but these first three lines have duely outdone it.
Here’s thus, a fruitful quatrain in no time.
And with ten more hard lines to go, I worry
about the fourty-five iambs not yet slain.
Yet I proceed to the next territory
and I make up a second sound quatrain.
So far so good, I scribble my ninth line.
My worries fairly and wearily shorten,
as I bounce on the final quatrain’s seat.
This leaves me two more lines to quarantine.
Now check my syllables– each line’s five feet,
count lines how you’ll, I warrant there’s fourteen.