and now for sonnet completely different (my father was a hamster and nailed to a perch)

I think you're mean to scoff, for such a form
As this deserves a subject so sublime
As raises it above the middling norm
And makes it live beyond the realm of time
That's why I write in sonnets -- I have dreams
Of raising armies, pen in hand, to fight
The tyrrany of ignorance, with screams
Of "Out damned spot!" and "Ow, me baldric's tight".
You rodent mutilators, you ignore
The subtleties of rhyme (the flounder knows)
So once more drop your breeches, friends, once more
And let us Puck 'til all the rancour goes
For all our yesterdays have lighted farts
To fester in the pockets of our hearts.