By Luis G. Dato
A poem of fourteen lines, why, that’s the sonnet,
A page of yellow tablet paper stares
At us from the bare table, twits and dares
Us write one pronto, says it thinks we cannot!
To prove it’s lying pure and straight, doggonit,
We take the pen, despite, the din downstairs,
And as some minutes flit by unawares,
The first octave of the darn thing we’ve done it!
Believe us, scribbling poetry is not
As difficult as it appears at all,
One line is by another line begot,
And ere you know, the Muse has come to call,
The problem ? poets are a dwindling lot,
But do not think this tale we tell is tall!
