by Mathew Paust

Shit, I guess I'm gonna hafta

Sit here, wrack my lobes and crafta

Sonnet for the first time only,

Or be lettered lost and lonely.

Sonnets silly are not favored,

Serious stuff is what is savored,

Yet my temperament finds follies

De rigueur to feed my jollies.

Nevermore shall I endeavor

Such an effort to be clever,

As prize of praise be faintly doled,

Incentively doth leave me cold.

Yet tap the keyboard I can do

My faint praise I shall save for you.