Fishing Sonnet
Get a line down, something has to follow.
Toss a lure to a passing muse hoping
that it'll bite. A word fisher that will wallow
in the shallows, flick fly back and forth, hooking
the first weighty idea. We want substance,
settle for fingerlings, if all we apprehend.
A fat muse appears, and we at once
are duty bound to hook it and rend
it fit for public view. That's the problem.
Each idea reduced to maximum readability.
It is found on laugh tracks on redone
comedy, lest one not get the point or defy
good taste, rewriting Henry Potter for illiterate
American audience. Fished out is our fate.
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