I’m not a poet, not by any means,

although it’s not for lack of times I’ve tried.

My head is vexed by rhyme and rhythm schemes,

and syntax fails me. In all fairness, I

consider myself skilled at writing prose,

or research papers fifty pages long,

but God (and if not God, my notebook) knows

my sonnet skills are surely seldom strong.

Alas, I can’t write poetry to save

my life. Moreover, every time I try,

I feel like Shakespeare’s rolling in his grave,

or Whitman’s ghost looks on and rolls his eyes.

Regardless, in this English class I stay,

and toil and type and hope to score an A.