The basic rules for writing a pantoum

In a traditional pantoum, the lines are grouped into any number of quatrains. The first line of the pantoum must be the same as the last line. Lines may be of any length. The pantoum rhymes alternately, since it has a rhyme scheme of abab in each line resulting from the repetition described below.

Repetition

So far as repetition goes: for all quatrains except the first, the first line of the current quatrain repeats the second line in the preceeding quatrain; and the third line of the current quatrain repeats the fourth line of the preceeding quatrain. Moreover, in the final quatrain, the second line repeats the third line in the first quatrain; and its last line repeats the first line of the first quatrain, tying the whole poem neatly together.

For example, if one were to write a pantoum with five quatrains, the line repetition would run as follows:
1 2 3 4 - Lines in first quatrain.
2 5 4 6 - Lines in second quatrain.
5 7 6 8 - Lines in third quatrain.
7 9 8 10 - Lines in fourth quatrain.
9 3 10 1 - Lines in fifth and final quatrain.

During a particularly arduous foray into experimentation with poetic forms, someone set me the challenge of writing a pantoum about Daniel Johnston. I seem to remember there being some sort of ridiculous time limit. Regardless, here it is in its disgusting entirety.

concerning daniel johnston

when you are low the world sings in a different tone:
everything shifts more slowly, like an old dog in the sun.
drainpipes buzz with shit and water. a kind of disquieting moan
shoots through people like the bullet from a jaded gun.

everything shifts more slowly, like an old dog in the sun
lying down to die in the yard. music, like some sort of nasal drone,
shoots through people like the bullet from a jaded gun.
people’s faces fade to the colour of desert-bleached stone.

lying down to die in the yard, music, like some sort of nasal drone,
and humming grotesquely, splays out like the drab habit of a nun.
people’s faces fade to the colour of desert-bleached stone,
and then they bawl as if the universe had only this moment begun.

humming grotesquely, splayed out like the drab habit of a nun,
the sky cuts down deep to the white flashes of bone
and then it bawls as if the universe had only this moment begun.
at the back of my throat, the tap water is as sickly as knockoff cologne.

the sky cuts down deep to the white flashes of bone
drainpipes buzz with shit and water. a kind of disquieting moan
at the back of my throat. the tap water is as sickly as knockoff cologne.
when you are low the world sings in a different tone.