A Sonnet upon Sonnetry

Some have argued that no one writes a sonnet 
perfect in metrics, rhythm and in rhyme, 
but these first three lines have duely outdone it. 
Here’s thus, a fruitful quatrain in no time. 

And with ten more hard lines to go, I worry 
about the fourty-five iambs not yet slain. 
Yet I proceed to the next territory 
and I make up a second sound quatrain. 

So far so good, I scribble my ninth line. 
My worries fairly and wearily shorten, 
as I bounce on the final quatrain’s seat. 
This leaves me two more lines to quarantine. 

Now check my syllables– each line’s five feet, 
count lines how you’ll, I warrant there’s fourteen.

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Sonnet: Grind us down with your problems

Keep grinding. Life’s supposed to be a bed
of roses. Oh, how we all feel for you, son.
Wish we could know what’s going on in your head.
Too bad- as all we always have is fun.
Advice? Visit a joint, greet, have your seat,
& order your afflictive local drinks.
They could be cheap, so DRINK! Do no quit
yourself away ’til your eyes cease to blink,
and your steps start to tramp. If these means fail,
bargain a very safe area, a stool,
a copious length of rope or bunchy veil–
(a team of simple and regular tools).
A wooden ceiling will do- one with hook,
or jump, head-down, into a shallow brook.

Sonnet: The Modern Poet Laments

Thou thinkest that this generation lacks
the purity & form of fallen Bards?
We sucketh. Thou art right. We play the cards
but stab the rules. We are as loose and lax
as diarrhoea. We apologise.
We shall discard our paragraphs and lines
of arguments & premises sublime,
& proceed to employ “methinks’ & ‘thys’,
because this is the fifteenth century.
May we submit to archaism now?
Très bien. When cliche shall besiege thy brow..
& move a little down to blind thy eye..

Forgive me, extempore gods of rhyme,
but I shall rhyme in the language of my time.