I shall not write another villanelle
Upon the principle it's not the norm,
The writer puts himself through bloody hell.

I shall now write free verse and therefor tell
Restrictions of the poets that conform:
I shall not write another villanelle.

For such forms house a writer in a shell,
Sheltering from a non-metrical storm
The writer puts himself through bloody hell.

Should every stroke of ink I make rebel,
Thus rendering all my labour now deformed?
Shall I not write another villanelle?

Come you poets where's your rebel yell?
Your sharpened wit? Or were you never warned
The writer puts himself through bloody hell?

Irony has now just rung its bell
And to my shock I've stuck to bloody form;
Shall I not write another villanelle?
The writer puts himself through bloody hell.