A Simple Sonnet
If I knew Iambic Pentameter,
Then I could write simple sonnets for her...
But men like me, alas, born deaf to tone
Are ever condemned to sing all alone.
If I just knew where to stress inflection,
My songs then might border on perfection...
But lost to ev'ry stammer and stutter,
I'll ne'er sing anywhere but this gutter.
If my pen were magic, ah then maybe
I could steal her heart, make her mi-lady...
Then whisper sweet nothings soft to the ear,
And pluck the heartstrings, easing forth a tear.
The world then might see me a famous bard,
Ah, but let's face it, man, sonnets are hard.