Let’s super-size the sonnet for a buck.
Add terza rima and a side of fries,
Or stuff the crust with gossip, news1, and lies.
’Cause otherwise, what fool would give a fuck?
When with the syntax’s op’ning lines he’s stuck,
Who mulls and strains to sing th’immortalized?
Instead just lease the piece and merchandise!
Tweets from Keats, posts from Pope2 have better luck.
As buskers in the street intone the blues
And passersby toss coins and rush away,
Now—here—late-breaking—on the evening news—
What time have we for darling buds of May?
E’en now, when I invoke the sacred Muse,
Request denied, she says, girl needs her pay.
1 Pre-order today:
Prime poetry express-shipped.
All sales are final.
2 Was this review helpful? Here on the scene
where the voice of one cries out in the wild:
Everything Must Go *pending credit screen-
ings at a theater near you; he smiled
the most exquisite smile (as rates may vary)
Like a prayer I’ll take you there, like a child—
Quick! take the quiz: which poet would you marry
based on your shopping history—click like,
subscribe, comment; swipe right for Alighieri.