Writing the Stuff

When your villanelle is vile

and the sonnet is a sod

and the bob-and-wheel’s turned bloody,

you can only groan, “Oh, God!”

When the doggerel’s been damned

and your ode is very odd

and bucolics have been blasted,

you can but cry, “Oh, God!”

When you feel your ballade’s buggered

and the nightsong’s on the nod

and the sestina’s a son-of-a-bitch,

you’re pushed to spit out, “God!”

If the rondeau has been rogered

and you’ve couplets like wet cod,

chuck your pen and snarl,

“It’s all your fault, O, God.”

We're not to blame, not ever,

when spades of poems plod,

so sort Yourself, inspire us,

there’s mercy needed...

 

Sod!