• A Sonnet writer’s Murder

    Sitting alone in his dark and unlit room
    Donny the hit man was making a plan,
    A poet needs whacking and he’s the man.
    He spins out sonnets like cloth from a loom.

    He writes in Petriach which Donny always hates,
    He writes in iambic pentameter
    The one greatest bane of any writer.
    Now the poet sits and awaits his fate.

    Donny like a shadow walks through the door,
    The poet keeps on writing his sonnet.
    Donny the hitman enter, the poets gunner.
    The poet turns, the sonnet on the floor,

    Trigger pulled the poets death apparent,
    Donny’s happy, one less sonnet writer.