Sitting at home on a Wednesday night,
Burning away the hours with an upbeat tune
Writing a closed form poem is a blazing fight
Something I’d rather be finished with soon
For there are better things than writing this poem:
Constructing a paper ten pages long,
Chewing on a bucket of snow white foam,
Or stabbing myself with a sharp, fiery prong.
Though I guess I should not blow hot air
Because with the help of my sharp wit
This poem has a certain flare
Showing a trait I really must admit.
Of how much a smartass I really can be
When I sit here and fire this sonnet out easily.