First time I saw you, I was at the wheel
of a powerboat, bone-rattle slamming
over the roiling waves. I was decked out
in rubber suit, goggles, breathing
apparatus. The full man-of-action kit.
I was pumped up, ready to dive, emerge,
scramble over rocks, haul myself
through crevices and up gradients,
basically the whole Milk Tray scenario.

Holiday tomorrow: I’ve got to pack.
A fortnight’s break—there’s lots to pack.

At least a dozen detective novels
Riddled with serpentine plots to pack.

Charles Xavier’s sulked in his room
since matron said Cerebro was banned:
why triple the leccy bill when there’s
a copy of the Yellow Pages to hand?

How to write a villanelle

Think of yourself as a DJ remixing a sample.
Try to find a rhyme scheme that won’t get grotesque.
This particular piece is a bad example.