The Sonnet Page

This is the place: you're at The Sonnet Page,
Where everything is said in fourteen lines,
Where happy thoughts about how many tines
A proper fork should have are all the rage.
Should Russian acrobats still take the stage
When filled with longing for those jungle vines
Tarzan used so effectively? One dines
On iambs, then decides, relaxed and sage.

No thirteen liners, stanzas crammed too full
To fit the common mould, no anapests,
No dactyls, no unseemly pyrrhic jests,
Just fourteen stately lines of cock and bull.
You're here because you also feel the pull
Of sonnets, where the elegant heart rests.