Song Of The Sonnet

I am a sonnet, don’t you know. Behold

     The very highest form of verse that’s known.

     But few can reach my much exalted throne

And do a decent job with me, I’m told;

It takes a master hand to write me cold.

     When I approach the critics renown

     All other forms go way back and sit down,

For I’ve been It since palmy days of old.

I came from Italy, a Dago dug

     Me up, with pick and spade, the stories go,

     And called me then and there his “Sonetto”,

And here I am, a victim of each plug

     Who tries his hand at making verse who ought

     To be imprisoned for his crime if caught.

Dec. 14, ‘04