I miss the swish of grass and clover
The crunch of twigs, no pangs, no hunger,
That place is far--I must not pine--
For a poor, plucked porcupine
I watch out for the angry poet
I stumble back, too late to exit,
She glares at me, at these sharp spines
Her ink has spilled, so here she whines
I hate, I hate to wish her ill
She writes this poem with my quill
To see this paper sculpture of a Plucked Porcupine from more points of view, click here
This poem was meant, at first, to be a sonnet, which as you know is a form of poetry that contains 14 lines in four verses: 4 lines in the first verse, 4 in the second verse, 4 in the third verse, and 2 in the last one. For example, the rhyme scheme in a Shakespearean sonnet is a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g; where the last two lines are a rhyming couplet.
However, by the time the ink dried on the paper, the poem seemed to be missing a verse. Fittingly, it is a plucked sonnet.