I Feel Like a Poet

What force of tongue, that plagues me now, is this?

It may be just a product of the hour.

The ache of fingers, sorely straining fist--

And over me the thought holds such great pow'r.

Romantic notions I have meanly missed,

And never have I felt the giddy glee

Of THAT, which, frankly, tops the tristful list

Of things that I'm sure won't happen to me.

Recall, I wrote that sonnet back in May,

And in it I spun sweet lines laced with--what?

But those emotions catered to wordplay.

Real inspiration's never graced my gut.

My tongue may cramp and curl but I won't say

When, honestly, it's untrue anyway: