The devil's overweight. He doesn't care
About his looks, and lives below a roof
That's caving in, a run-down house of prayer
Where wasted cigarettes surround one hoof
And smoke outlines the other. If you call
The center, he's no help. His peers agree
He doesn't work, and they can't stand his drawl:
This stupid, mixed-up 'Spanish' language he
Created, which he uses there instead
Of actual English. After Satan acts
Completely idiotic, they all head
Online to blow off steam, and make their cracks
Where poets hear. Though he's behind the times,
His peers proscribe their rants for use in rhymes.
3 comments:
I should probably explain this bit of gibberish. Most of this, including the entirety of line 8, is lifted from comments seen in a chat window. One person was talking about the devil, while another was complaining about a coworker. When I noticed the complaint was in iambic pentameter, and announced I would make it into a sonnet, the person was not pleased. They misunderstood my intent to blend the conversations as I had initially, and humorously, and a bit intentionally, misread them.
La, it was sufficiently amusing as it stood, but that added all the more depth and meaning, thanks a ton for the explanation. Interesting gibberish indeed when paired with the title. Aside from the title, it almost seemed to tie together as a disgusted diatribe from someone disillusioned in their religion.
Bright idea for a sonnet, especially seeing the inspiration, as it sometimes weirdly does, came perfectly prepared in iambic pentametre. Did you give the inspiring characters the link to this tribute to their disjointed conversation which makes a fascinating whole?
La, what a devil indeed!
Yeah, but nobody read it. :)
Post a Comment