sonnets epitome of incomprehensibility Like My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun And orange soda nothing like a womb. Concinnity is not a pellet gun Nor irrigation quite a dancer’s room. Appreciate is not a part of speech, The acid content never was a stair, A paradox is not a microfiche, And vanishing is nothing like thin air. A rose is a rose is nothing like the rose I know. And math is not a garbage can. These motherfucking snakes are not a prose! This sentence is a lie and not a man! What simile? It’s not entirely fair, so many things belied by false compare. 131209 ... e_o_i (an older one) An English Sonnet An English sonnet deals with English things. It does not say bonjour, konichi-wa, or dzien dobry. No, God save the queen! It says “Good day to you,” and that is all. It never would attempt a “Yo, whatup?” any more than Keats or Shakespeare would. An English sonnet does not “shake things up.” It’s strictly tea and crumpets, and that’s good. Not Australian or South African, not Irish, let the reading world rejoice, but strictly English. Not Canadian! An English sonnet knows no foreign voice (except when it allows a small OK) ‘cause mostly, sonnets deal with the UK. 131209 what's it to you? who go blather from