The Angst Sonnet Ack! I feel constrained by scan and rhyme. It's my fault. Enjambed in time and space so ill-defined, I make myself a mime and hopeless clown. I feel so out of place. What is rhyme, that so entrances, trails, With useless tails of words? What is scan, whose meters and feet have no regard for scales of distance and space? These rules enthrall this man. I will be a modern poet's dread, Dressed in black, cappucino in hand, Banishing Kerouac, quoting Skeltonic instead And ending every line with rhymes so bland. Perhaps this is my sole and soul-full fate-- To spout the rhythm and rhymes that moderns hate copyright 24 Apr 1995, by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw.