Sonnet about sonnets
Rhyming in iambic, counting fingers
Trying to make sense, syllables dropping,
Onto archaic form, often lingers,
Instead of language, clopping and popping,
Modern with its sublime spoken diction,
Filled with colloquial noises and slang.
A beautiful work of spoken fiction
Caroused in exuberance and shebang.
But shouldn’t I just, stay to the meter,
And in its essence, play along in truth,
Finding its Shakespearian bleak feature
With rhymes jutting, strutting quite proud and crude.
The Sonnet seems, quite complicated,
But could it be really overrated?
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