Hey, Doper poets. I know you’re out there. So here’s the deal: we’re plopped in the middle of an argument between lovers. Tricky part is, the whole thing happens in sonnets. Style, rhyme, meter is up to you. I’ll start it off; you tell me what happens next.
Ah, love, you have the beauty of the sea,
in face, in form, in figure not unlike
that moocow of the deep, the manatee,
most sizeable of all beyond the dike.
And yet, at times you are a silverback,
replete with hair and lacking much in grace,
and always fully ready to attack
when I some worthless trinket do misplace.
In you, all animalia combines
to form abomination so complete,
a poor conglomeration of designs
that nature would be proud to call a ‘freak.’
But I, despite revulsion, you embrace—
just leave the paper bag upon your face.
So what happens next? It’s up to you.
My love, you do me wrong, it seems
with these insults you allow.
Never, even in my dreams,
would I insult YOUR noble brow!
Indeed I love your majestic mien,
your handsome rounded face.
A cushion has your body been,
when you smother me with your embrace.
So, my love, kiss me please,
press your lips to mine.
although your whiskers make me sneeze,
and your breath smells like turpentine.
Indeed, my dear, I love you, although sometimes I feel
that I could love you more if I weren’t reminded of a seal.
Dear friend, if such a friend you are to me,
I fear your worth’s not in your poetry.
A SONNET, love, has rhythm with its rhyme,
A certain tempo one can beat to time.
Yours, dearest pet, while poetry it may be
Is not a SONNET, as it seems to me.
A SONNET, if you’d check the meaning plain
Is 14 lines that rhyme to rhythm’ed strain
Of Iambic Pentameter, to come
“da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum”
If you need it spelled out. As I believe
You must. But I will grant you this reprieve,
Just try again, remembering what I’ve writ,
Otherwise for your words I care no bit!
Carcair, I must disagree
Not all sonnets beat that time
Go back over your poetry
What makes a sonnet is a rhyme
Shakespeare has spoiled you, I’m afraid
with his Iambic Pentameter
But, of such things are not all sonnets made
as you can see if you look here.
In tetrameter did Hardy write
and do you know what’s worse?
(Not that I want to start a fight)
Milton’s sonnets were in blank verse.
That is my defense, my friend
and with that, I do now end.
I’ve signed aboard and have obtained
My much missed straight dope cookie
My bet would be on Captain’s word
If I only knew a bookie
In keeping with the OP’s post
I’d like to add another
But now it seems I’ve altered the theme
By not using the voice of a lover
Lovers naught to insult more
At the OP I’ve had a looksie
To win this battle in a lover’s quarrel:
Deny your mate some nookie
The post doth state that we are plopped
in the midst of quarelling lovers
To carry this theme in sonnet form
will take the will of others
My love for you is not unlike a creek:
it’s shallow, rocky, and given to drought.
My overwhelming lust can make me weak,
but then I waken to your piglike snout.
While I do not wish to seem a snobbish prude,
your table manners don’t befit a goat.
Your conversation always is so crude.
You daily drool enough to fill a moat.
Of prowess great you often boast and brag,
but your girth and skill have got to be a joke.
My dearest, though I do not mean to nag,
the cost of dildos almost runs me broke.
But life with you can truly be a dream,
for knowing you improves my self-esteem.