There are some limits on the sonnet form,
Some tasks it is not suited to perform,
Some things that do not do well to conform
To fourteen lines that rhyme and run in place.
Some things do not require so much space,
While other cannot keep an even pace,
And others yet cannot be made to rhyme.
Their senses are such as do not them prime
For taking on that paint for any time;
They yearn instead, or seem to yearn, to speed
Along and many structures not to heed.
But I have never understood the need
To race along and strictures to forsake;
I need a pattern to my making make.
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