Iambic rhythm buoys my little song
Pentameter to count her beats to ten
Imagined dreams there gaily bob along
Aboard a craft constructed with a pen
A full fleet, fourteen, heeds this rhythmic tide
Bears forth my senses fished from depths anon
Those given form by this nib’s scratch and glide
A cargo worthy of a little song?
A pity that my ditty won’t pass close
inspection, since perfection’s not my aim
Yet with my little song I now can boast
that I have writ a sonnet all the same
But is its cargo rich enough for song?
Or never more than ballast all along?!