Few of my sonnets did not have their flaws,
I hurried many, making bad mistakes
And looked on them as though my daily chores
Or like they were the root of all headaches.
Perhaps it was a sin to force them out
To write a sonnet when not in the mood
But when there were some things to write about
I did not really feel much like a pseud.
Funny though all those months that now have passed
And all the words I've written that are gone
And only very few of them will last
But nothing really lasts when sun is shone.
So I kept going even when so bored
That as I wrote the words I thought I snored.