I am using my smart women icon because it is just blatantly what I am not:
I am currently studying for English. Ballads make me want to eat my eyeballs because I can't understand them and sonnets make me write crap poetry. I told Anne I'd post this (I also told her it came out like vomit) so here goes. Take it seriously if you want. Note that the line numbers are placed for your convenience.
Breathing life into Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? (1)
A summer’s day in Wellington is utterly over-rated. (2)
The wind and rain will ruin darling buds of May (3)
and I cannot get my lines to scan (4)
this sonnet fails sadly in form and rhyme. (5)
I am Benedick, failing pathetically at describing you (6)
my Beatrice, or equivalent, because lady rhymes with baby (7)
and love with glove. (8)
I glove you doesn’t mean a lot in any language. (9)
Our love is not like Romeo and Juliet (10)
I would not die for your cause (11)
take poison because if I can’t live with you, I must live no more (12)
This is the twenty-first century and Juliet would say (13)
Screw you Mum and Dad. We’re in glove. (14)
And just so that this entry isn't an utterly pointless clog of your friends-list, I bring you poetry that is fabulously not mine, also bastardised sonnets:
The Ultimately Minimalist yet Richly Postmodern Rhymed Poem by AK Grant
a
b
a
b
c
d
c
d
a
c
d
c
a
a
Sonnet Reversed by Rupert Brooke
Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights
Of heart and eye. They stood on supreme heights.
Ah, the delirious weeks of honeymoon!
Soon they returned, and, after strange adventures,
Settled at Balham by the end of June.
Their money was in Can. Pacs. B. Debentures,
And in Antofagastas. Still he went
Cityward daily; still she did abide
At home. And both were really quite content
With work and social pleasures. Then they died.
They left three children (besides George, who drank):
The eldest Jane, who married Mr. Bell,
William, the head-clerk in the County Bank,
And Henry, a stock-broker, doing well.
Breathing life into Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? (1)
A summer’s day in Wellington is utterly over-rated. (2)
The wind and rain will ruin darling buds of May (3)
and I cannot get my lines to scan (4)
this sonnet fails sadly in form and rhyme. (5)
I am Benedick, failing pathetically at describing you (6)
my Beatrice, or equivalent, because lady rhymes with baby (7)
and love with glove. (8)
I glove you doesn’t mean a lot in any language. (9)
Our love is not like Romeo and Juliet (10)
I would not die for your cause (11)
take poison because if I can’t live with you, I must live no more (12)
This is the twenty-first century and Juliet would say (13)
Screw you Mum and Dad. We’re in glove. (14)
And just so that this entry isn't an utterly pointless clog of your friends-list, I bring you poetry that is fabulously not mine, also bastardised sonnets:
The Ultimately Minimalist yet Richly Postmodern Rhymed Poem by AK Grant
a
b
a
b
c
d
c
d
a
c
d
c
a
a
Sonnet Reversed by Rupert Brooke
Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights
Of heart and eye. They stood on supreme heights.
Ah, the delirious weeks of honeymoon!
Soon they returned, and, after strange adventures,
Settled at Balham by the end of June.
Their money was in Can. Pacs. B. Debentures,
And in Antofagastas. Still he went
Cityward daily; still she did abide
At home. And both were really quite content
With work and social pleasures. Then they died.
They left three children (besides George, who drank):
The eldest Jane, who married Mr. Bell,
William, the head-clerk in the County Bank,
And Henry, a stock-broker, doing well.