According to my grandpa, proper sonnets
have one stanza more than mine have had.
I look online and find that—oh, gosh darn it—
he is right, of course. I'm in the bad.
Now comes the choice to change my form or not.
In just another couple lines we'll see
if I decide to drink that dusty draught
of rhyming scheme that rhymes along til "g."
What might each poem actually hold
if I allowed it fully to unfold?
Spenser will not be happy.
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