Do not relax your villanelle
Though scrawlers will give up, and slide
And vapid verse attempt to sell—

They type, in vain, a free-verse hell
Where poetry convulsed, then died;
Do not relax your villanelle.

Their poems are an empty shell
Devoid of message. Woe betide
Those babblers who attempt to tell

A tale— or say a dull farewell
Unable to inspire, or guide.
(Do not relax your villanelle.)

So let the lyrics now impel
False poets toward the great noontide;
And may their muses judge them well.

Our destinies run parallel:
Some verses live, where others died.
If you relax your villanelle,
Will other poets then rebel?

 

Try to write a villanelle, and have the poem end on a question.