The Horror of Sonnets

In all my years I've ne'er been forced to write
A sonnet, that is what they call the thing.
About these sonnent, no praises I sing.
I strain and sweat; I must be quite a sight.
I work all day, and then I work all night.
I hope my thoughts quickly to me will bring
A solution to this annoying thing.
I jump and holler and put up a fight,
But now my futer doesn't look so dim.
The words are coming to me easier now.
They seem to obey my thought and my whim.
So with a thankful heart, my head I bow
And pray to Him who helped when thoughts were slim,
And to never write again I make my vow.