I looked at Dryden's lovely tales;
his couplets sing like nightingales.
His polished words so nicely buffed:
I wish that I could write such stuff.
I kept on skimming Dryden's tomes,
and read his many groovy poems,
and every thought I henceforth had
was in fine metre duly clad.
Iambic verse with perfect feet;
my head was feeling pretty neat.
So then I tried to write a sonnet,
but I'm still working on it.