Welcome to the turn of the page, New Year’s,

And to the lyrical crown, the Sonnet;

Since we won’t really behind our old fears

Til at least July (these times bubonic)

And with that pox, our elections chronic

(Fevers preparatory to war civil)

What use talk of plans and worthy logic,

Pennyboy of desire, spouting drivel

To please master id, pistol ready

To spout gibberish or leaden slugs?

Better lift a squat pen, scribe words steady

Fourteen lines–against seven centuries’ floods,

Wars, famines, decay, lies, corruption, strife,

Cut Archaic rhyme, beauty’s cup, truth’s knife.