sonnet, documented below. It's bad, and for that, I apologize. Unfortunately, that sonnet is the only mildly interesting thing that's happened to me this week, so there it is, forced meter and all. In my own defense, I was never good at 'hard' poetry.
You may insert your own 'hard' joke here.
Guffaw guffaw, to be sure.
Back to the poem, I don't really care that much that the poem isn't my best work. It doesn't matter anyway-- sonnets are so 400 years ago.
Tis shameful thou art filled with so much shame
Thou coverst thyself and hides thyself from all
Who may be so inclined to share thy pain
Who may attach his eye to thy eyeball
And kiss thy lips with n’er a second thought
Given to those who give a damn about
The deals and trials of what they knowest not
Let me deal with their verbal roundabout
The book of love tis not the book of sin
And love, not sin, their laws dictate to them
Thou can be thyself, my sweet minikin
For they must deal with their God in the end
The lie with which you lead your life’s good too
For I’m the only one who sees you true.
