An ode to me from the dear Tom Gillespie:
To write a bitch a sonnet 'pon this hour
and pique her mind with cogent thoughts indeed;
this task hath made my countenance quite dour
while alcohol has rob'd my wit its speed.
Gamely press I on past darken'd midnight.
... My face in Facebook profile starkly limn'd
by CRT in ghastly greenish-white.
My drink now done; my artful longing dim'd.
And yet the bitch her sonnet will require;
her plaintive suitors for her notice vie.
They shall not soon succumb to sleep's desire
unless Erato deigns their thoughts should fly
with inspiration to reveal the words
that best prevail to melt the bitch's heart.
And after Rhyme and Meter's laws secured,
Select and copy, paste, and post thine art.
Poetic bitches sleep, and know no fret,
their literary expectations met.