I Coulda Been a Poet

“By Jove!” Said he, “I think I’ll write a poem;
A verse of rhyme, ’twill be my great debut.”
A sonnet then, a form that he could hone,
With rhythm and with flow, and much ado.
Its meter and its balance should concur,
To punctuate, so phrases won’t collide,
And maybe, too, a cunning metaphor;
To obfuscate, where meanings like to hide.
And tone is most important to its style,
Hyperbole, they say, it is a must,
And don’t forget the daggers in his smile,
And lots, and lots, and lots of blood and lust.
“Oh yes!” He cried. “A sonnet I’ll compose.”
He pondered for a while - then picked his nose.