You’re probably familiar with the villanelle as a poetic form because of Dylan Thomas and “Do not go gentle into that good night,” which besides being a terrific example of the form is a really sad and lovely poem.

The following, on the other hand, is

A far cry from Dylan Thomas
I will not write a villanelle;
I’d rather curl up with a book.
But I can’t think of a thing to write.

November had me under its spell;
its writing project I undertook.
But I will not write a villanelle.

Buzzfeed, Facebook and Jezebel,
all distractions of which I’ve betook
when I couldn’t think of a thing to write.

November continues to compel
me to churn out this gobbledygook
but I will not write a villanelle.

Pretty maids and cockleshells,
an empty old sketchbook.
And I can’t think of a thing to write.

I never said I’d write them well,
these poetic forms I’ve forsook.
And I wouldn’t write a villanelle,
But I can’t think of anything else to write.

Somewhat related: Whenever I think of Dylan Thomas, I think of Simon and Garfunkel.