Sonnet No. 1 (Iambic Tetrameter)

My sonnet’s not a pretty thing

Its rhymes are gauche and foul

Upon the ears it’s apt to ring

Like a dying screech owl.

I cannot rhyme, that is the truth

(and as you know, I never lie)

But since I have to, then, forsooth

I’m wont to ask you, why?

Why must I sonnet for you, if

The only thing I’ll cause is pain

The rules of rhyme are far too stiff

These lines are ugly stains.

And now to joy my voice I’ll lend

The sonnet’s finally reached its end!