I sat down here to write a little poem.
I reckoned it would only take a minute.
I’d jot it down at coffee and be done
As soon as I had two words to begin it.
With umpteen rhymes for puppet right at hand
(though some, it must be said, a bit farfetched)
I confidently scribbled what I’d planned.
Well really, would I care if haters kvetched?
But wait, I meant to dedicate my work!
And now I’m in the homestretch, rounding third.
Facepalm, what’s wrong with me? I’m such a jerk.
I clean forgot, it’s for you, every word.
But never mind, do we need icing on it?
No, you my love, my sweet, you are the sonnet.
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