Capturing moonshine


A little riffle to flex things around a bit.

I’ve been stuck again for the last few nights wrestling with the ‘usual’ while going to sleep, and spent a bit of time this morning airing it some more and seeing if I can squash it back under again. Just to prove a point I suppose, I thought it best to end on a light note before lunch. The scansion is poor, and it would be funnier if it were actually good use of words, but it does keep me sane, and reminds us all I suppose that just because something fits the mould doesn’t make it meaningful, or at least, that if the good Lord had intended us to express our feelings he wouldn’t have made us of meat.

Shall I start my sonnet with a question?
It's a quirky scheme, Shakespearean form,
But for the English, it's become the norm.
(There's no answer, so don't give a mention.)
There's introspection; the verse develops
in lolloping lines languidly moving,
then faster short sharp sibilance proving
that true love all other things envelops.
We need some enjambment to quicken
the pulse of our readers' urgent lection;
like snails' childhood griefs the plot must thicken,
or some other notice of education.
Now expansive, our ardent bachelor
Must be fended off with a spatula.