Chasing Shakespeare's Sheep

This is the fastest poem that’s been written in the world,
Each verse written without stopping, as each line has been unfurled,
Without me even knowing how it starts or how it ends,
The words, like sheep are left to roam and choose which way they wend,
With my pencil chasing after them they race across the page,
A pace I barely can keep up (though I’d put that down to age),

And what is it I have to show from all this galivanting,
This rather pointless train of thought that’s left me flushed and panting?
Is it a never-ending stream of rhyming consciousness,
Or is it - as I now suspect - a vast poetic mess.
Yet if I wrote just four more lines I'd almost have a sonnet,
As good as Shakespeare's do you think - I wouldn't bet upon it.
It's plain to see it doesn't have that medieval romance,
I think it best if we accept it's all style over substance.