(Wendy Cope does a far superior villanelle called A Reading.  But I can't abide rants or "shouting" as it is otherwise known)

 

We patiently wait on these god-awful rants

Which interest the poet alone,

But rather retreat to our torpor and trance

And patiently wait his belligerent rants

While secretly thinking that this is all pants

And stifle a yawn and a groan,

Resigned to endure this god-awful rant

Which interests the poet alone.

 

 

And now it’s the next of these god-awful rants

And like that before it’s a clone;

You’d nip for a pittle if you’d half a chance

But now he is into the third of his rants

With rocking and swaying like he’s in a dance

To help his monotonous drone;

But you patiently wait for the end of these rants

Which are clone after clone after clone.

 

 

And now you’ve shut out his laborious rant

Which hums like a dull metronome;

The end is in sight if the Good Lord will grant

Respite from these fucking god-awful rants;

(The football results are perhaps worth a glance

You’re tempted to look on your phone)

A ripple of clapping then breaks through your trance;

Sweet Jesus! He’s ended his god-awful rants

Though none of us dared to voice it was pants

Which interests the poet alone.