‘Twas born of tumult, toil, troubled times
This dreary den of literary hubris.
Disgruntled poet’s voice was wrought with rhymes
And barbs, an arrow not inclined to miss
Its target. Skewering the bard became
A grand adventure. Clever quips disguised
As metered iambs–sonnets all the same–
Deceived the academics who surmised
My penmanship sincere. So what recourse
Remains? The Weekly Sonnet’s point is through,
Its hapless victims felled without remorse,
And all experiments conducted due.
I needn’t obfuscate my thoughts again;
Sincerity hereafter guides my pen.