I despise sonnets, and they despise me.
So obnoxious with their fourteen line rhymes.
I’d rather be attacked by a banshee
Than be subjected to my mind’s rhyme-crimes.
Fingers tapping to the ten syllables.
Dead to the iambic pentameter.
Now I’m praying for the running of bulls.
A better poet would make my freezer.
o, I know Shakespeare would be so ashamed
To read the words that lay upon this page.
They do not stand to the man they are named.
A Shakespearean sonnet on rampage.
I know the man himself would not agree,
But thank God for rhyming dictionary.