Offered with apology to Shakespeare, who might laugh, or cry, or care not a whit at all.
I wonder what a sonnet is in truth,
Although I know I really shouldn't care,
As quietly I sip a fine Vermouth,
I'll try to write this little one to share
It was at first a simple song of love,
Of structure free, a message from the heart,
But now constrained by form, a binding glove,
Defined, confined, refined by rules of art
The rhythm is 'di-dah' said four more times,
In lines we group in fours but only thrice,
Then add two more to end it all with rhymes,
That alternate in lines that shall entice,
The reader to embrace the author's light,
And not repel or cause an early flight.