On Meter-Swapping, And Why It Messes With My Head

A sonnet every day has been my vow,

As I did undertake on New Year's Eve.

I've never missed a day - please don't ask how -

And once 'twas underway I did believe

I'd no more frets 'bout getting each one done.

But then I got an idea I have held

In check -- until I succumbed to the fun

It offered: a mock-epic that would weld

Space opera with farce. Yet woe is me:

Ottava rima is the classic way

Those are constructed, it is plain to see.

It's not unlike a sonnet, some might say:

Ten syllables a line, iambic, yet

The rhyme's scheme's off and so's the length, you bet!

A Sonnet in Which I Reveal that Iambic Pentameter's a Bitch

On days like these, I curse my foolish thought
To generate, before each day is through
A sonnet that has all the things it ought:
The syllables, the rhyme scheme and then, too
The meter that, for Shakespeare, seems a breeze.
It drives me mad, for my poor feeble brain
Thinks in ottava rima, if you please!
I think I can give Byron all the blame.
I read his great Don Juan much too young,
Spent too much time admiring for their style
Those silly lines that tripped so off my tongue,
And never failed to bring to me a smile.
But since I haven't got a time machine,
I'll do my best to keep to this, my scheme.