The Perfect Sonnet

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