I am not in the mood to make words rhyme
Or to count syllables to fit each line.
I am just not inspired to ring that chime.
And seek though I may, I can’t find a sign
To show that this is the time for writing
That forty-fourth sonnet in this series.
Maybe I’ll skip it instead of fighting
This drunken muse. But, sadly, I fear he’s
Just passing through, so I am inclined to
Take what he offers no matter how lame.
I may be wrong, but I am not blind to
How dull the wild word once overly tame.
Whatever. ‘Tis writ. It won’t be erased.
Worthy? Who cares? No accounting for taste.