An Abecedarian Sonnet
A sonnet is a bard’s poetic form
but less ubiquitous than bawds’ lim’ricks
(converging on the walls of stalls their norm,
dispersed with where to call to get your kicks).
Exceedingly well-known, some quatrain licks
(forget-me-nots you quickly memorize),
gyrating like two couplets as they mix,
homogenous, entangled hips and thighs
in rhymes entwined while sharing moans and sighs,
joined head-to-toe and places in between,
kick-assing like two teens to win the prize—
lovemaking with a mien that’s oft’ obscene.
Most memories play havoc with a scene
not learned except as sonnets back in school,
oppressing students’ mind and heart and spleen,
prerequisites to be the teacher’s tool:
queued up against the kids who played it cool,
replete with words which Shakespeare only knew,
self-confident that someday they will rule
to take revenge on bullies who would spew
unkind remarks and spittle on those few
voracious minds who hoped that they might learn
what wisdom they could glean before they rue
xerosis of gray matter in their urn.
Yet sonnets can be fuel to help transform:
zephyric winds which lift our human swarm.