A Sonnet

A while ago, as part of preparations for a possible future entry into graduate school, I took it upon myself to make it through the entire Norton Anthology of Poetry. Skipping none. Not even Amelia Layner (don't ask). As of this afternoon, I've made it to Jonne Donne, which means I've waded through a crapload of Love Sonnets, Shakespearean, Spencerian, and otherwise.

So here's my contribution to the genre. I'm calling it #1.

Shall I compare thee to a musty toe?
You'd shame a rotting corpse to diffidence.
Rank reeks do sometimes seep up through a shoe
Wi' a stink like Gorgonzola's recompense,
And some neglected feet will rear a mold
To make visible that which ere was smelled;
And every foot of which was ever told
Was at least once with foul odor befelled.
But thou - thy stench remaineth in the rooms
Long after your brief passing was forgot,
Nor bleach nor fire can purge the rancid blooms
Of pestilential clouds by you begot.

So long as men can smell, and lungs take breath,
This lingers just as long: your creeping death.


We'll talk soon, but please man, take shower.