by Scant Montagne
No, I am not a sonnet and won't be
When I have run a course of fourteen lines.
You're looking for those tell-tale sonnet signs -
The ones you learned in English two-oh-three.
Those simpering rules that are so false to me,
Which your pedantic lecturer assigns,
Will never trap me in their ordered lines,
For I have branches like the laurel tree.
My turn will not impress you with its wit
And foolishness will be the only crop,
Whose verdant ears will soon invite the worm.
So pass me by - I am a twisted twit
Who taunts you to dissect. A studied chop
Won't separate my content from my form.