Le Ton beau de Marot

This poem
is going
to devil
my mettle.
My mind's jammed
by these damned
rhymes: A A
B B… Pray,
God save me.
How can three
miserable
syllables,
fourteen pairs,
wring despairs
such as these?
My ill ease
only grows
when I pose
this question:
‘Translation:
all in vain?’
‘No!’ Doug claims,
as Clément
retains ton
even in
(though you grin,
believe him!)
this poem.