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.