Sonnet of Anger
I defecate on the horrid works,
Of those who would have me bound.
No reason for this have I found.
All of the dimwitted envious smirks
For those half talents, no account jerks,
Still my infirmed brain it doth pound,
Like a hellish wail or horrific sound.
Judge them and their insane quirks,
I refused to be held at bay,
To be made to go insane.
For all of the pieces I write,
For those are what I have to say,
From the wasteland of my brain,
And they have yet to get it right!
Italian Sonnet
By JToddUnderhill
© 2008 JToddUnderhill
(All rights reserved)
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