2nd Place Poetry
Oh sonnets, whyfor dost thou bring the suck?
Thy rhyming schemes drive pupils to the drink.
Pouring out souls, forced are they to run amok.
Quill to scroll, the words flow but oft do stink.
Quatrains, couplets, meter, verse: all are tricks,
Upon the furrowed brow of the wordsmyth.
Iambic pentameter smells of Styx,
Beckoning forth the reaper and the scythe.
But hark, doth mine eyes trick and deceive?
Is thy form beauty, the height of perfect?
The bard is summoned and art is achieved.
Low grades will not the average infect.
Forced from the ether and full of wit,
The deed has been done, the sonnet is writ.