Perchance I wonder’d ‘pon a kindly star

Of whether thou couldst render me some aid.

I caution thee: mine’s a conundrum rare

That maketh men scream out, their will decay’d.

My drummers now return with yen to beat.

A lutenist vaults a theorbo grand

And like a nimble hare is quick of feet -

So says the mistress of the beetle’s band.

A moth sticks by a trancing, flick'ring fire

As masons guilded labour at their toil.

I call to them, “O brothers, let’s retire!

A warrior back-flips like a launchèd coil.”

I will consume thee like a cream-filled puff!

Can’t get enough, no, I can’t get enough.

– –

And here it is, for hers, or his, or hers

In bick'ring sim'lar to their marriage vows!

Alas, I will be, in this second verse,

Having an abundance of platonic relationships reminiscent of my man, Mike Plato.

I walk’d the street and scream’d “I’m blind!”, and yet

No soul remark’d my agonising woe.

I must have lost my mind; I couldn’t get

Another, couldn’t get another, no.

And like a praetor’s guard, an oath I’ve sworn

To keep secure this humble village green.

The dogs of war have savag’d, ripp’d and torn

This land. I now keep home a normal scene.

These sweet rhymes fashion I straight from my cuff!

Can’t get enough, no, I can’t get enough.

– –

An obstacle! Oh no, these sonnets run

Until the author findeth how to scale

Their height, their width, their depth; oh no, not one

Direction can he take to end this tale.

Oh rock my soul! These words turn stranger still;

By now the author’s standards are less picky.

Who cares now for precision words to fill?

A thing'majig! A what’s-its-name! Doohickey!

Doolittle speaks of rain in Aragon

That parachute-like pantaloons can’t touch.

And then I, euh, um, euh, no words anon!

My stammer pounds my aching head so much.

This groove I’ve dress’d in Jacobean ruff.

I think, by now, we’ve fin'lly got enough!