Desperate characters can be counted on to say
the deadly enemy's routine and ticking-on
drink up a rumour, stirred with a song. Hey! -
Better to venture, even if it's wrong.
Then when they find themselves over the edge,
on the iron rungs hanging-on for continuance,
wish themselves back, wind moaning in the sedge
of some flat marsh gone by, with commonsense.
The subtle gleanings from the stubble of the air
are something they find difficult to hear,
though it's their own experience urgently whispering;
they pause a moment, head cocked, listening,
then back to the rant-ta-ta-tant of their tirade,
as tattooed hosts were marching to their aid.
.......................
It's a hybrid sonnet. And also on the principle of five stresses a line rather than the iambic ten syllables. Still sonnety. I should know this kind of folly well, since it has been mine, often enough, hopefully times gone by.
