My Little Song

Sonnets, man, that's the stuff to make you think    
yourself round the cobwebs of your blank mind,    
and hard enough to sweat out good strong drink      
and gain different views as you write your lines.
      
It'll quicken the blood prickle the skin      
there's time for melancholy when you're dead,  
traditional too you'll be Shakespeare's kin!      
but, by hap, you'll not by quite so well read...  
    
This rhythm when finally acquired      
believe me lad, it can cure most of life's ills,    
you'll reach greater heights than you aspired      
and maybe you'll match those of, matchless Will.      
    
There, now, I have said almost all of the all      
Pick up your pen, go on then,  have a ball.