|A test of prowess and of lingual skill
A way with words and vernacular things
Composed from manners of my true goodwill
I paint with words the craft that is of kings
A blank mind kills the humble sonnet’s being
The quatrains and couplet torment the brain
Some write without a sight that is foreseeing
Of rules and schemes of which they can’t maintain
With articulation and orat’ry
I carve my verse with ingenuity
Of dialect I am a devotee
I’m truly without ambiguity
Though complex and stressful as it may seem
‘Tis I who in the end does reign supreme
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