The Perfect Sonnet

Thy blessed tongue, it trippeth o’er the phrase
that speaks too plain its mind in forward word,
and doth not twist in convoluted ways
about non sequiturs, a mocking bird.
Thine artist’s heart, it sings old songs of love;
you utter speech not heard since Shakespeare’s day,
and here, you know no better fit than dove,
and thank the stars that poets still say gay.
O! Love enduring, why should you be changed?
Why taint your breast with vulgar words and new?
Why sentence make one normally arranged
when thou must elder apricots on blue?
I prithee, let me rest within your tree
and dream of simple poets, just like me.

U668857 -

Great pastiche and lampoon. Leanne. Somewhat ironically - it's a lesson in how not to do it. Very clever! Rgds.,Alan.

ps. "elder apricots on blue" ??

Leanne Hanson -

Oh Alan, surely you've eldered an apricot at least once in your life -- or at least phantasmed a pomegranate. Yes, I don't know either. What, penguins?

Shannon McEwen -

god I hate you (not really!) You're like the person in the room everyone wants to be like when they grow up!

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Life is what happens while you wait for great things.

Life is what happens while you wait for great things.

Leanne Hanson -

Aaaw, you know I love to be hated

Melden Fred -

Good Lord, Leanne. That was awful. Here are some suggestions for improvement:

Thy blessed tongue, it drippeth o’er the frays
that speak stool plain – its mind in foreword weird –
and doth not twist like khan-voluted wheys
about sequacious turd with shmucking beard.
Thine arse is hard, it stings old schlongs of love:
Your flutter scree (not third since Shakespeare’s day).
And Hear! Ya’ know, no better fits the dove...
and thank the stars that poets still say gay.
O! Love enduring, why should you be changed?
Why ‘taint your breast got vulgar words ‘stead’v new?
Why sentence make one normally arranged;
thou must have held her apricots and blew?
I prithee, let me rest within your screed
and dreg of simp poetics, while I breed.

There! Much better.

Alcuin

Leanne Hanson -

Thy dripping tongue, it blesseth as it sprays
on pigeon stools and patsy rattailed nerds
whose convolutions keep them trapped for days
in front of websites filled with naked birds.
Thine arse may know the sting of slinging shlong
for reason says that Shakespeare too was gay
(the wig and tights alone say owt was wrong,
what were you thinking, sweet Miss Hathaway?)
O love, a jury said you were deranged
with boobs and balls both equal in your view
but lighter sentence you have now arranged
as on the judge's apricots you blew.
But still, you write such tender poetry
I wish you'd give your spotty arse to me.