The poetic form of the old sonnet,
Seems so useless and very out of date
No more do girls wear a fancy bonnet
And such should be iambic poems fate.
This savage poem cuts the brain for meat,
It pierces with sharp rhymes o’r fire to fry.
And dances ‘round to words that fiercely beat,
Until the life has left the page to die.
So throw the worthless prose into the fire
Stoke the flames to make it glow bright and hot
Chant until you’re dizzy with desire
Stab its tiny heart so it will live not.
We wish for death upon restrictive lines,
and forcing fourteen phrases into rhymes.
This is being posted for Thursday Poets Rally, Week 16