This is the land of a thousand sonnets
Okay, some are crap, but nobody knows…
It’s all relative; who’s to say that it’s
Good or bad? Subjective terms fell and rose
So only I decide what comes and goes
Sometimes I rhyme what’s in the news; others
What’s in my life, or out of it; the throes
Of death began suckling mother’s
Bottled milk teats, so these treats of short verse
Are designed to encapsulate the shits
That come my way, and the infrequent rose,
Sweet-smelling, between the cradle and hearse
I’m sounding like a pupil of Beckett’s
Without the claps, but with all the same woes
Sun 31 May 2009
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