Erato, the muse of lyric poetry, looked down from on high and furrowed her brow. Something was not right. She plucked at her kithara in agitation. She was dissatisfied. No, more than that, she was BORED. Pentameter was past its prime. Haiku were humdrum. Villanelles were so vaudeville. Limericks were completely lame. It was time for something new, something different. But what? With supernatural sight she peered from her perch on Mount Helicon and searched. Somewhere out there was the next big thing. It had to be challenging, and it had to be short. Drabbles? Now there was an idea.