The first line of this sonnet ends with "plains."
As you can see, the second ends with "day."
Although I wish that I could rhyme away
According to my whimsy, I say "stains,"
And then I end line five (this one) with "pains."
It's March, but I prefer to speak of May.
The rhymes of Keats are now a game we play,
And so, let's all pretend the clear sky rains
And that the bare trees brim with rustling leaves,
That up above we're glimpsing seven suns,
That anyone still uses words like "sheaves."
Okay? Now let me stop to catch my breath.
There's no way I can end this line with "runs."
I know. I know. I beat that joke to death.
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