Oh, on this wondrous Sunday morning glow
The birds are singing pleasant frilly notes.
However, these things I have to forego,
For on a wretched sonnet I now dote.

I’m five lines in, yet nine more lines to go.
The sun is shining; how can I kick-start
This tort’rous sonnet which I think a foe,
Then finish up, and make some real art?

The eve’ning’s come; Oh, this is hard to write!
The TV’s on and while Jay Cutler drops
The football, I’ve been working hard all night
Been harvesting my thoughts as if they’re crops.

At last, I’m done! I’m finished with my quest!
Goodbye, my poem, I’m off to get some rest!