The Evening Aesthetic

Poetry's vessel must have a sail
For the breeze of inspiration to fill
But when that breeze becomes a full gale
You must have in place some tried and true skill.
Words, of course, must be blue ribbon choice
And not sorry slang from coked up street gangs
Or twitter account for a moron's voice
No better than an animal with fangs.
The sails are like quatrains and stanzas
There to exploit inspiration's storm
That sometimes shows up like ore in bonanzas
Which must be contained in some sort of form!
Who knew content and form could be so much fun
When writing without direct aid from the sun?