On The Sonnet

I couldn't write a sonnet, no matter how
I tried. It's difficult to chop and fit
my thoughts, my free expression thoughts, right now,
right here, to such a rigid form. My wit
is not the tight-arse type. My lines are full
when I am done, no less, and never end
at some exactly counted syllable.
What's said is key, not how. It's just a trend,
this fancy verse, for populists; it's dropped
as rot in modern poetry---and how
can anybody teach that tightly cropped
and strictly managed words can ever plough
the spoken thought, the blurted crude opines,
and crop the lot to only fourteen lines?