Sonnettics

It never was that great, and now there’s this
You call it what you like, it’s this to me
Some adaptations taste like drinking piss
And no one wants to watch, unless it’s free

So I am free, you bastards to regale
Without the sense to follow Disney's lead
Within the belly of the fucking whale
A sonnet should be heard, but you just read

For what it’s worth, the truth is never true
For all you care, the lemonade was rum
Of course they’ll say it’s just what you should do
But I believe the train may never come

And so I know I’ll never say good-bye
To this, my muse, a fucking TBI.

Marcescence is when leaves refuse to fall
They’re dead and dry and yet they still hang on
A simile for things that we recall
Like memories we thought were done and gone

Our memories are leaflet buds in Spring
And Summer’s green that rustle in the wind
It’s Autumn, yet some memories will cling
Marcesant memories we can’t rescind

And now that winter’s knocking at the door
We see these ghosts when branches should be bare
Marcesant leaves persist a little more
As if they know they’re dead but just don’t care

Know this, that memories are subtle thieves
That give us nothing but marcescent leaves.

Such regular expressions fill the air
The air in all its purity implied
It tells us we should regulate our care
Before it knows for sure we’ve never tried

As green as blessed bud, as blue as smoke
The dreams become the nightmares we had sought
Like rhymes that rise In couplets as we choke
Like bits of stolen candy no one bought

It doesn’t matter now, It’s just a word
The word is god in some poetic verse
The word of god when read becomes absurd
And frequently it goes from bad to worse

Now write this down before we both forget
It’s just a game; it doesn’t match and set.